One
by sweetdreams-sunnymornings
Summary: Mercenary Ranger and halfbrother Anthony Stewart on a mission in Scotland. Can the guys save the free world? In time? Co written with Adalind, Harmne, and Tuck. Complete
1. Chapter 1 Prolog

**_Standard fanfic disclaimers apply._**

Any resemblance to real persons, places or events is a coincidence! Really. LOL. There are references to Adalind's characters Bailey, Danny, and Winter, and their stories , in her files: Adalind2007.

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN This story is in many ways a group effort. The original version of the prolog was written by me and Tuck; the upcoming smut is a special treat from Harmne. And alternate chapters of the main story were written by myself and Adalind. I'll tell you who is writing on each chapter and I'll be sure to forward your reviews. I, we all, hope you enjoy!_**

* * *

><p><strong><em>One <em>**

**_._**

**_Prolog ~"It's Dervla...Dervla, um, Smith..."_**

by sunny d and Tuck

**_._**

_[Emily aka Pippa POV]_

_._

**Bang!** Whomp! Sizzle!

**Great, effin' great. My life too closely resembles** a comic book sometimes. I just hit yet another New Jersey pothol - - God, the roads here are crap - - and the sizzle combined with the rental Ford Taurus's lurch to the left convinced me that I now had a flat tire. Fighting the heavy traffic, the ever-worsening freezing rain and cursing these cretins who all drove on the wrong side of the road, I cautiously steered to the gravel breakdown lane and stopped.

I put on the blinkers and said, "This wouldn't have happened if I was in my Landy!" I was strenuously ignoring the fact that even my beloved Land Rover would probably have lost the battle with New Jersey's winter-decimated roads. I heaved a sigh and got out to inspect the damage.

I had been so excited to come to New York! But I just flew into Newark Airport on the red-eye and I was exhausted, hungry and cranky. With the time changes and airport delays due to bad weather and general ineptness, it was now approaching midnight, Eastern Standard Time. Long, long day.

I was headed to New York City for the International Reenactors and Museum Gifts Manufacturers and Importers **( IREMGMI **- pronounced _ir-**rem**-ig-**ghem**-_ee and sounding vaguely Japanese) Trade Show at the Javitz Center in midtown Manhattan. Almost a year ago now I had begun a campaign to convince my business partner aka boyfriend David that we needed to go after bigger markets than just the UK. And lucky me, I won the toss to be the company's representative here at the show. I had insisted to David that as the firm's vice president in charge of sales, it was _my_ job to be here. And it was his job to stay home with _his_ kiddies, because having us both come was far too expensive at this point. Instead of bringing staff from Scotland I hired some pseudo-Gothish wannabe actors for sales people and models, through an temp agency in New York.

What I didn't tell David was that I was excited beyond belief to actually be here in the US, flying right into Jersey. It just seemed too fangirl for words, but I had MapQuested Trenton NJ and secretly was hoping I could sneak away at some point - - it was only 90 minutes from the city! - - maybe have a slice of pizza at Pino's and see some real TPD cops. Nope, no way, no how was I telling that to anyone. Instead I was all business, I went for professional, packed my skirt suits and pumps and grabbed my sample case early this morning, UK time. David's two kids, soon to be my kids, I guess? - - were coming down with something sniffly and I wanted to get out of Dodge before someone decided I had to do the mum thing and stay home.

But now this. And just when I thought it couldn't get any suckier, when I opened the boot and hauled my suitcases onto the icy roadside, I found out that Avis didn't try hard enough to give me a jack. Yeah I had a spare all right, but no tools. I dug my mobile out of my pocket, forgetting that I don't have international service. I had planned to pick up a cheap US disposable phone in the morning. The tiny screen said _No Service._

No shit.

Frigid rain tricked down my back. I shivered and tried not to burst into angry tears. And two big shiny _dry!_ black SUVs pulled up behind me. A Porsche Cayenne and a hulking black Jeep Commander. I'd have been more impressed if I hadn't already realised that large, expensive black SUVs are dime a dozen here in the US.

I hoped these guys weren't ax murders and that their cell phone worked.

I squinted through the sleet at the black vehicles. A man got out of the passenger side of the Porsche and headed over to me, followed by the driver of the Jeep.

A third man, the driver of the Porsche, also got out and set some emergency flares. Guy number one, the Cayenne passenger guy, was dressed in a black wool pea coat and a black baseball cap, dark jean, boots, gloves.

He said, "Need help?"

"Do you have a phone? The rental doesn't have a jack and I want to call them."

"It's past midnight. They'll be closed," said the Jeep guy who came up next to the first man. Both stood hands on hips and stared at me.

I said, "Taxi?"

"You're on the New Jersey Turnpike, babe. No taxis here," said Jeep guy. He seemed to be the designated speaker and I examined him more closely. He was dressed, despite the snow and ice, in ratty cargo shorts, teamed up with more sensible hiking boots and an UnderArmor anorak which hung open over a surf shop tee-shirt. No hat, no gloves. Dreadlocks with beads. The wind whipped his jacket open wider and I caught a glimpse of a handgun in a shoulder holster.

Telling myself not to be intimidated, that everyone in New Jersey carries a gun - - hey, I read JE, I know that! - - I looked back and forth between the two men. The rain and snow wasn't enough to disguise the men's hotness, illuminated as it was by the nasty yellow sulfur lighting on this crowded yet desolate stretch of highway.

Guy number one took my elbow and steered me relentlessly towards the Porsche. "Why don't we sit in my car and get warm while Tank changes the tire for you, Ms...?"

I thought _Tank?_ _Is that a common nickname in the US? Like Johnny?_

Distracted, I didn't respond, but he somehow got me into the SUV and got the heater blasting and the seats warming. The Jeep guy climbed in back and the third man opened the hatch and wrestled out the tools to fix my car. The liftgate banged closed and the interior went dark. The man in the driver's seat pulled off his baseball hat, tossed it in back and shook out his long dark hair, then absentmindedly re-secured it in a sleek ponytail. He then punched on the interior roof lights and said, "My name is ..." His voice was drowned out by a semi roaring by, but he held out a hand which I shook in silence. No way was I giving some stranger my real name.

I looked at the two guys now inside the warm, well-lit car. Both men were ridiculously good-looking, think GQ model or film star hot despite both looking a little cold and damp and needing to shave. _And maybe the stubble was deliberate_, I thought to myself.

_And you smell really great._ Someone or both smelled deliciously of I was guessing expensive soap or shower gel because aftershave seemed unlikely in view of the five o'clock shadow both had.

I said, "Is someone making a movie around here or something? You guys look familiar..."

"No," said the man beside me. He added, "I didn't catch your name, ma'am."

I am _so _not a ma'am, fer chrissakes! I said, "My name is Dervla, Dervla, um - - Smith."

"Smith?"

"Yes," I said coldly.

The guy behind me leaned between the seats and said, "We're not actors, we're bounty hunters. And we are looking for a female fugitive named Dervla, an Irish woman."

"I am not Irish!"

The man beside me said to his companion, "Look at the red hair, doesn't fit the description."

The man behind me tweaked a hank of my sodden red hair and examined it. Said, "Looks like she buys it at Duane Reade, man. She could be Bailey."

Guy number one said, "Are you armed?"

"No! And I am not Bailey! Or Dervla! And you are?"

"Anthony Stewart, ma'am. My partner, Carlos..."Another truck zoomed by.

The one called Carlos reached behind himself and dug a set of scary looking steel handcuffs out of his jeans waistband. "No need to make this difficult, Dervla," he said and reached for my wrist. I scrambled back against the door, reaching for the handle but the auto-locks clicked closed with an expensively muffled thud. I said, "Okay! Okay! My name is Pippa!"

"Pippa?" said both men. Their eyes raked down my wet body, studied my legs.

Stewart said, ''Maybe,like, under the jeans...?"

I wanted to scream. I forced my voice to stay calm. "Not Pippy..." They were looking for my, her (Pippy Longstocking's?) striped stockings, the idiots! "It's Pippa - - Phillipa, actually! Um..look, here's my passport!" I dug my passport out of my jeans and threw it at the men. And I started to cry.

Uninterested in my sobs, Stewart and Carlos bent their heads together, reading my details and conferring in silence. I nearly peed myself when there was a rap on my window and the door opened, causing me to almost fall onto to the gravel pavement. _Weren't the doors locked? Huh?_ Big hands stuffed me back into the car and a deep voice said, "She's all set, boss."

The man called Carlos nodded faintly and handed me back my ID. He said, "You can go."

_Fuck you, mister!_

Tank helped me out of the Porsche and the three big men walked me to my car. Tank opened my door and I said, "Thank you. I think."

Carlos said, "Welcome to New Jersey, Pippa. Enjoy your stay." And he kissed me on the cheek, then disappeared into the worsening snow, followed by Tank.

Anthony Stewart said, "I live in New York, I'm gonna follow you to your hotel to make sure you get there safely."

"Not necessary," I huffed.

He smiled at me. _Omigod._

He said, "Oh but it is. You don't have a reliable vehicle. And you're exhausted, right? Jetlag?" He reached out and carefully tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing warm along my jaw. He added, "I'm, uh - - we're sorry if you were frightened." His very beautiful dark eyes searched mine, then dropped to my lips.

I said, "Uh huh."

"Pippa?"

"Yes?''

"Welcome to New York." His hand curled gently around my neck and he kissed me too. But not a little polite cheek peck, this was a _kiss_. My toes curled and my brain fogged.

**"Miss! Miss!"**

**"What!" I opened my eyes** to flashing emergency lights. A young man in a uniform, I was guessing some kind of state trooper, was leaning over me, a worried look on his face. He didn't look old enough to shave and while he was cute, he wasn't HOT, you know? I looked past him and said, "Were some guys just here? In black SUVs?"

"Ma'am, your car lost traction when you got the flat and you skidded into the embankment. You've been in and out of consciousness."

"How long have I been here?"

"Just a few minutes. The tow truck is here now. I can drive you to the ER unless you want me to call an ambulance."

"No! Can't we just fix the tire? I have to get to New York City!"

"No ma'am, you've been unconscious. You can get checked out and call for a car service or a replacement rental from the hospital. I have to follow procedure."

_Sigh._ But my head was splitting and he was wavering back and forth in my vision, so I acquiesced.

Six hours later, I checked into the Times Square Crowne Plaza Hotel and called home.

"Hi, David, you'll never believe what happened..."

... ... ...

**It was not a dream!** Nope, it was every fangirl's wish come true. That's my story and I am sticking by it!

By the way, the trade show was a huge success. We plan to attend again next year.

_Maybe I'll get to Trenton next time, _I think, back in my little office at my second - - or is it third? - - job at the Inn in Stromecarron, in the Scottish Highlands. I run my fingertip over the white business card I found tucked into my passport the next day in New York.

_Or maybe I'll just enjoy NYC again._

The card said:

**Anthony Robert Stewart**

**M and S International **

**NEW YORK**

**London Rome Zurich Geneva Tokyo**

**Georgetown, Cayman Is**

I flipped it over and _engraved_ on the back was:

**www(dot)oneshot(dot)com **

**1 800 oneshot**

_One shot. One shot?_

_Go for it, Pippa, _whispered the devil in my heart.

* * *

><p><strong>tbc<strong>


	2. Chapter 2 One  One

**a/n** **Thank you for reviewing!** But, man , you guys worry a LOT! Not a oneshot, obviously,lol. This takes place when Ranger and Stephanie are a couple, soon after Take a Chance. **R & S HEA implied**/ babe. No Morelli. Bailey is mentioned but she does NOT appear in this story. Adalind did her best not to make her chapters too dark or angsty. My stories are never angst! So, sit back, relax, enjoy! And review?

* * *

><p><strong>One-One <strong>[by sunny]

**.**

_[Ranger]_

**I jammed the Porsche into overdrive**, tight on the ass of the black Ferrari in front of me. Immediately downshifted to feather the hairpin turn of this narrow mountain road in the middle of freakin' nowhere. We shot up over a final rise and there before us was a dark blue inlet—a _loch—_surrounded by empty, desolate hills covered with purple flowers and wreathed in fog. Picture postcard Scotland, if you like that shit.

_Fuckin' Brigadoon_, said Anthony in my head.

The only reason he was leading this juvenile race was because he was first out of the luxury vehicle leasing agent's car lot in Inverness where we picked up our rides. The roads were too narrow to pass the Ferrari. I may have a death wish but driving off a mountain and exploding in flames isn't part of my usual fantasy.

We screeched into a tiny gravel parking area, what we'd call a scenic overlook in the US. We got out and stood there for a silent moment or two, evaluating the building down below us.

"It really is, like, a castle, man."

"Very pretty." A hint of sarcasm from me. The place was actually beautiful and romantic and I suddenly wished I was here with Stephanie instead of on a job. I added, "If they have perimeter security it's very discreet."

"Or careless."

"MI6 isn't usually careless, Anthony."

"They're out of their league here."

"The castle has been a fortified stronghold since before the Crusades, probably they don't think anything can breach the walls.''

Antonio, who has a brain like a computer, told me, "Actually it's a repro. A modern 20th century fantasy, built by some rich industrialist before the European stock market crashed in the 1930s."

"That wasn't in the files."

"I googled it. And now the former head of British military intelligence has bought it and renovated it again for large scale conferences and events like the World Economic Initiative Conference this week. And Sir Putrid..."

"Sir Peter."

"..even hosts the local Highland Games every year."

"Hmmm."

"It's a real moneymaker, boon to the local economy too. You know they even do weddings?"

"Not mine."

"Well, no."

... ... ...

_**Three days earlier**_

**Our favorite General had summoned us** down to DC. He called and almost begged, asked me to come and bring only my half brother Anthony Stewart. The general was polite and asked nicely, so I said yes.

I came alone.

But of course Anthony was trailed by his two stern-faced MIB bodyguards. No getting around that. Now we were riding in an old-ish overly ornate elevator up to see our general and, of all things...all _people_, the Secretary of the Treasury.

"We haven't dealt with Treasury since the Secret Service got moved to DHS, man."

DHS is the Department of Homeland Security's current alphabet designation.

I shrugged. _Treasury _means money, so it was all good. So far.

Anthony added, "Something reeks about this job, bro, stinks to high heaven...smells like an A-stan dung heap. You hear what I'm sayin'?"

I cut my eyes to him. The MIBs stared into space, functionally deaf. It wasn't like Anthony to be nervous. And he was dressed oddly. He'd appeared in Haywood Street early this morning, shorthaired and surly, and he'd proceeded to root through my closet for a change of attire. Ten minutes later he had ditched his cargo shorts and flipflops and was dressed in one of my black Rangeman uniforms. Anthony doesn't work for me and he _never_ wears a Rangeman US uniform. My clothes fit him okay and he looked better than 99.999% of the world's population even in his surfer rags so he looked acceptable. My clothes are a little loose, he's too thin really...so my black cargoes had a hint of the saggy-waisted fit he likes and the black shirt was worn tails out over his faded wifebeater. I was pretty sure the tank had once been red but now it was a gruesome rose color.

I raised an eyebrow. My live-in girlfriend Stephanie looked up from her FTA files and took him in too."Oh! You look...adorable. You look _great_ in black."

Anthony scowled and she laughed. "Filling in for Tank, sweetie?"

"_Yes_. Exactly.''

"Button your shirt," I ordered. "None of my men would wear a pink undershirt."

"Get a grip, bro. Life isn't just a Rangeman photo shoot, you know."

... ... ...

**Now, in the elevator, Anthony said,** "What if this guy recognizes me?"

"The general?"

"No. The Treasury guy. Balter."

Gerald Balter was a fairly new Cabinet member, the recently confirmed Secretary of the Treasury. I knew who he was but we had never been, ah, introduced.

I asked, "You know him?"

"I know him when I'm Anthony Stewart, CFO of one of the world's largest banks, Ranger."

"Probably he won't recognize you out of your bespoke suit and handmade shoes, bro. But maybe, um..." I jerked my chin at the bodyguards. "Hardly any of my backup guys have their own entourage. It's a pretty big tell."

The elevator doors opened and we huddled in the foyer. Anthony looked at his men and said, "You heard the boss. Stay here."

"Yessir."

"Pretend you don't know me."

"...Yessir."

I told the receptionist my [current] name and we were quickly ushered into the Cabinet member's inner sanctum. Secretary Balter was seated with our general. Both men rose to greet us, and with a quick quizzical glance at Anthony, the general introduced just me. I shook Balter's hand and Anthony did his best imitation of one of my Rangeman crew, giving a curt nod and manning the door. I wasn't entirely sure what was going on with him but I went with it for now.

I sat down with the two older men, passed on refreshments. And when the silence dragged on, both men looking eagerly at me, I finally asked, "So what can Rangeman do for you gentlemen today?"

Balter turned to General XXX who took his cue and said, "The Secretary has a...a problem."

Balter quickly said, "Not a problem!"

"Ah—an _issue._ He—well, the president, actually—was hoping you could help."

"Go on," I said neutrally.

"You may be aware that the World Economic Conference is taking place next week in Scotland?"

I nodded.

Balter said angrily, "That idiot Sir Peter Glassman bought himself a knighthood and a castle in the middle of the Highlands, redid it, spent big bucks. And he convinced all the world's money people to hold their annual meeting there this year. Instead of in Geneva as would be usual."

"And."

The general picked up the thread, "Because he is the former head of MI6, Brit military intell, he has claimed his security measures are unbeatable. He swears the conference center is invulnerable. His castle is a fortress so to speak. Plus he has a contingent of SAS operators on staff, loaned from their spec ops command."

I nodded a little.

"But now we're picking up chatter via the NSA that some rogue jihadist group wants to take out all the leaders of the Western world's free enterprise economies. Wipe out the evil capitalists. They are maybe planning an attack."

Balter intervened. "I myself will be a keynote speaker. And frankly, Mr. Manoso, I don't want to get my head blown off just because some British Sir Someone has a big ego and an investment in a resort."

"So...?"

"We can't just storm in with our own operatives. It would be a huge affront to the UK."

"One of our few allies these days..." I pointed out.

"And so the president is requesting that you go in and see what the real story is, do what has to be done."

I stared at the general who added. "Budget is unlimited."

"So—you want me to do—whatever this is? Whatever is needed?"

Secretary Balter looked at me then jerked his chin at Anthony who was standing blank faced, at parade rest, by the door. "I want you on the outside, Manoso. I want him on the inside. Undercover."

The Secretary craned his neck around to glare at Antony. "You _were_ planning to attend, were you not, Mr. Stewart? Your bank is a major player both here and abroad and you always attend?"

_So much for low profile, _we both thought.

General XXX spread his hands in a _who me?_ gesture. Not his fault Balter was smarter than he looked.

Anthony didn't respond verbally but he projected a hint of annoyance and some badass vibes. He likes his worlds kept separate.

I know just how he feels.

I wrote a figure on my phone screen, showed the general. He nodded. I said, "Plus expenses."

"Expenses?" asked the general. "You won't buy a plane , will you? Or something like that?"

I stare at him.

"Okay, okay. Fine!" he grumbled.

I stood, shook everyone's hand and said, "No problem, gentlemen."

And so here we are.

... ... ...

**"So, **_**hermano**_**, what do you think?** These ancient walls are sufficient protection for the world's economic leadership? And fat-cat Secretary Balter?" I ask Anthony. [_hermano=brother]_

"I dunno about the walls, man, but I could shoot out a rat's eye from right here."

"Great." _not_

"Well but, you know, like that's me."

I said, "You and a bunch of wacko terrorists."

"Dude! Like, no! Top Shot? Like, there can be only ONE Top Shot."

I opened my mouth, then decided to let it go. Probably he's right, anyway.

I said, "So you think Sir Peter's castle has rats?"

"Oh yeah. On two legs."

* * *

><p>tbc<p>

* * *

><p>ff won't let me put links but to see The Castle you can google <strong>Highlander Castle<strong> or **Eilean Donan Castle**


	3. Chapter 3 OneTwo

**One**

**.**

**One - Two ** [by Adalind, with sunny]

**.**

**.**

_[Ranger]_

**I tailed the Ferrari down the bleak one lane road** and wondered for the thousandth time why the hell we were staying so damn far from the castle. We had to have been around twenty miles away, and must have passed at least three other hotels. Shit, if it hadn't been for Anthony being aware of his surroundings I would have missed the turning for this godforsaken village. _What the fuck were we doing all the way out here?_

_Golf, bro! _

Golf? This fucking place didn't look like it had nickels to rub together, let alone a golf course. The Porsche tore past another run down cottage huddled at the side of the road, its exterior paintwork cracked and tinged with mold. The house sign hug off a lopsided post next to the rotten gate on only one hinge, and swayed drunkenly in the wind. What a shit hole!

I hit another pot hole in the scarred tarmac and grimaced as I corrected the car. Shit, Iraq had better roads that this place. Said strip of battered tarmac sloped down gradually and another loch came into view along with a scruffy fenced compound with half a dozen aging cars on its lot and a billboard that proclaimed _AMD Motors_. Yeah, Iraq was looking pretty good right now.

The road continued for another half a mile and ahead of me and set on both sides of the road was what looked like a golf course. It was a meager nine hole affair, and the loch side of the course appeared to be mostly under water. Who the hell built a golf course two feet from the sea and that was partially under water at very high tide? The club house was a miniscule timber shed and I shook my head in disbelief as an elderly gentleman approached the first tee on his mobility scooter. It was like being in another world or in a different dimension. I just hoped to hell that this hotel was something more than a tin shack.

I downshifted suddenly as the speed limit dropped to thirty miles an hour and the track wound past a small school with a cluster of temporary buildings in the tiny playground that looked like extra classrooms, their exteriors decorated with brightly colored flowers and insects. The rusting sign on the high mesh fence read _Bun-sgoil Loch Carrann._

_It's like Gaelic, dude, _Anthony informed me as his Ferrari braked hard in front of me. I stomped on the brake and narrowly missed ramming the back end of his car, and watched as a small terrier type dog trotted happily across the road, oblivious to its surroundings. I was in the twilight zone for sure.

_And it means Bunghole?_ I said sarcastically.

_No it means..._

_I know what it means! Watch the friggin' road._

Another garage loomed up ahead, this one actually selling gas, and nestled next to it and set back from the now two-lane road that even had a white line painted down the middle of it, was the Stromecarron Hotel.

We parked down on the loch side of the road, I next to a scruffy looking blue Volkswagen with bald tires that had seen better days, and Anthony in the other remaining space next to a large white Land Rover Defender that sported galvanised metal plating on the hood and a snorkel. It was so large that it made Anthony's car look like a toy, the roof of his Ferrari not even reaching the top of the Land Rover's vast hood.

We stepped out of our vehicles, beeped them locked and crossed the quiet road to the hotel's main entrance. The door led to a tiny entryway with doorways in front and to our left. Ahead seemed to go nowhere and left led to a dining room.

"Which way, man?"

Anthony shrugged.

I went left and the sound of running feet made me stop in my tracks. A black Labrador barrelled up to us and barked loudly. A jumble of voices yelled _Shut up, Breagha!_ The dog stopped barking and then trotted off back through the dining room.

Anthony shrugged again and we set off in the direction that the dog had gone. The dining area was set in a 1960s looking extension with banks of windows that overlooked the loch. Three quarters of the way down was an archway - what would have been the original front door to the building. Carved in the lintel was the date 1879. The bar was beyond and we stepped through the archway and into a dimly lit room with a dark wood bar and a cluster of elderly men sipping whisky at the far end. The barmaid looked up briefly as we entered, before she turned her attention back to the flat screen TV at the end of the bar. Then she looked again.

_What ? It happens._

A rangy greying man in faded jeans, a scruffy t-shirt and a leather vest was seated at the table just inside the arch. He was busy reading the paper, looked up when we wandered in.

"Can I help you?" he asked in an English accent.

"Reservations in the names of Manoso and Stewart," I told him.

He nodded, stood up and wandered behind the bar to a battered looking diary. He unhooked a couple of keys from the wall behind him and pushed them towards us. "Rooms six and eight, mate. You want me to show you up?"

I picked up both sets of keys and shook my head. "I'm sure we can work it out." Didn't want to drag him away from his paper.

Anthony moved forward. "You have Wi-Fi?" he asked.

"Sure," the guy replied. He looked like a Hell's Angel, and the tattoo on his upper arm confirmed my suspicions.

My brother breathed a sigh of relief. "Great."

"But it's not working at the moment. You can use the office if you need to check you emails though. There's a spare computer in there."

Anthony slumped visibly and let out a groan. "Which way?"

"This way," the guy said as he disappeared through the door behind him.

We followed him down a dingy narrow corridor that ran past the kitchen and the back of the dining room.

He stopped at the last door on the left and stuck his head around a door. "You busy, doll?"

There was a grunt from what was presumably the office.

The biker shrugged and gestured to the half open door. "It's the one by the window. If you need owt just yell, okay? Or ask her."

Anthony went up the steps cautiously and pushed open the battered door. An elderly PC was over by the window and a newer one on the right in the corner, in a room that was no bigger than a shoe box. There was an urban print fatigue clad ass sticking out from under the corner desk. Its owner moved out backwards when we entered. A young woman made to stand up, smacked her head on the lip of the desk and cussed like a sailor.

Anthony tensed beside me and I frowned as I looked at her. I was sure that I'd seen her somewhere before.

_Boston?_ Anthony asked me.

_No, I don't think so, _I replied. _I'm thinking maybe Philadelphia, or Phoenix for some strange reason._

_Jersey turnpike! _My brother commented.

I studied the woman again. Red hair in a sloppy ponytail, black manga t-shirt, combats and a pair of frightening looking steel toed boots. It was the multiple piercings in her face and ears, along with the black tattoos that jogged my memory back to that dark and wet night about six months ago. "Dervla MacGuire?" I said.

She backed up into the desk, a panicked look on her face. "Oh shit!"

...

tbc

* * *

><p>Hi! Thx for reading. Remember...we love it if you bookmark our story, but ff. authors count their success (yeah we're a competitive lot)by number of reviews. So-please, please, take a moment and review for us? love, s<p> 


	4. Chapter 4 One Three

_**One**_

**previously: **_Jersey turnpike! My brother commented._

_I studied the woman again. "Dervla MacGuire?" I asked._

_She backed up into the desk, a panicked look on her face. "Oh shit!"_

... ... ...

**One - Three** [by sunny]

.

_[Emily/"Dervla"]_

**What the fuck were these guys doing here** and why was the dark-haired man calling me Dervla? I cast my mind back to my trip to New York last winter. These were the men who had roughed me up then fixed my flat tire and sent me on my lonely way.

But—_Dervla?_ I clearly remembered explaining to them that my name was Phillipa—Pippa, usually—Kincaid. I had even produced a passport confirming that identity. In retrospect: _bad move, girl._

The blond man narrowed his eyes at me and said, "Not Dervla. Remember? She was someone else...This chick was—Pippa? Yeah, Pippa."

He smiled at me and my knees went wobbly. "Amazing coincidence, babe. Fancy meeting you here and all that shit."

I automatically shook his extended hand with my right hand and rubbed my head with my left. I'd hit the desk really hard, I'd have a whopper headache in a few minutes.

A headache _besides_ the one caused by these men. Nigel, my Hell's Angel boss poked his head back into the closet-sized office and asked, "Everything okay here, Emily?"

"Perfect, Nigel, fucking perfect." I had used one of my best fake identities that night in New Jersey. I was exhausted and scared and I'd done my best to cover my ass. Unfortunately the tiny world of Stromecarron knows me as Emily Powers, the inn's bookkeeper and girlfriend of local archaeologist David Jameson. _Pippa Kincaid_ was someone else, a fictitious someone who lived her life undercover, a valuable covert operator for MI5.

_Deny, deny, _I told myself."You must be mistaken," I lied. "I've never been out of the UK. And my name is Emily."

The blond man said, "Anthony Stewart," and let go of my hand finally.

The other man just nodded a brief hello.

I said, "You must have had a long drive. How about I show you to your rooms and then you can come down and use my computer if you need internet access."

The dark-haired man said, "We can find our own rooms, no need to bother yourself."

The blond man smiled at me again and said, "If your office Wi-Fi is working, it should work in our rooms too, Ms..."

I stared at him."Dial-up."

"Shit."

He looked as horrified as I usually felt when I was working here, then he turned on his heel and followed Mr Dark and Surly. Off to find their rooms.

I sat back down.

"That went well," I said to the empty, tiny room.

... ... ...

.

_[Ranger]_

**We stood in the dim hall** and stared into our hotel rooms in some dismay.

I said, "Watch your head on the door frame."

"Man, this is old. It's fucking historic." Antonio ducked into room six.

"Uh huh."

I threw my bag on the bed and stood hands on hips. The room was small and quaint but the rough white walls were spotless as was the ancient hardwood floor. I tossed back the bedding. The bed was just a double but the sheets looked pristine.

Behind me Anthony said, "No cable. In fact, no freakin' TV."

I shrugged. "It's not the Four Seasons but it will do fine, Anthony."

"Yeah. And probably no rag heads with armed bodyguards in the elevator either, not like at the Four Seasons these days."

I turned and looked at him. Said, "No elevator."

And we cracked up laughing.

"That chick Emily is hot," Anthony told me.

Her sudden appearance in our op was going to give me some sleepless moments. I was nearly 100% sure she was the woman from the Jersey Turnpike. "She was lying about her identity. And you never said we'd met her in the US, she just assumed."

"I know. I love that in a woman."

I opened my mouth but had nothing. I shrugged again and went to check the window access and look at the bathroom.

Anthony said, "When you're done puttering around I need you to drive me back to Inverness."

"Why? We just got here."

"Yes but Anthony Stewart does not stay at the little old local inn, now does he? He has a suite at The Castle. And Mr Stewart arrives by helicopter with his personal entourage and assorted minions."

"Minions?" I asked.

"And bodyguards, dude. We'll drop the Ferrari off at The Castle then go back and get the heli I ordered."

I wanted to argue but it was a good idea. And the heli might come in handy.

"And I want to stop at whatever passes for Radio Shack here in the end of civilization. Probably there's one in Inverness. I can pick up components that let me rig our sat phones to access the internet. No Wi-Fi needed."

"But they have dial up, bro."

"Sucks. I can't live with that."

"Of course not."

"And it isn't secure. It cannot be made secure. Not even by me."

"Okay, okay."

... ... ...

**It took us 40 winding-road minutes to backtrack** to The Castle Resort and Conference Center. The parking lot in front of the historic section of the resort was busy on this sunny fall afternoon. It teemed with tour busses and motorbikes and backpack-laden hikers. Apparently the modern 200-room hotel was hidden behind this huge grey stone fairytale tourist trap.

Besides the visitors there were slender people in black (_not_ Rangeman employees!) milling around, waving their hands, brandishing cameras. Guys with clip boards.

_Press? Paparazzi_, I wondered.

Anthony parked and locked the Ferrari and came over to my Porsche, trailed by a flouncy little man with the ubiquitous clipboard. The twit was calling, "Yoo-hoo! Oh, yoo-hoo! Boy!..." as he trotted in Anthony's wake. I got my gun out of the glove box and stood by my open car door, watching carefully. Anthony finally noticed the guy and said, "I'll check in later. Gotta go." He thought the little man was a bellhop or something.

The man flung out his hands— and the clipboard—and whined, "But...the shoot? Aren't you boys here for the photo shoot? _Details UK_ is giving away a free weekend here at The Castle. We're tying the promo giveaway in with the Fall issue on hot, sexy gentlemanly casual wear. Tweed and denim with a hint-—ust a teeny _hint!—_of _luxe!_ You two are just perfect. Perfect!"

The slim man ignored my _what the fuck_?, turned his head and yelled, "Brian! Brian! The models are finally here, bring your make up bag! This one ...needs...well, maybe nothing. But...but. Oh! Oh my."

Brian, equally twitty, arrived with a large case. He dropped it near my foot and stood and stared. "Oh, Bruce they are perfect! Oh my, yes, you two are just perfect," His eyes stripped us naked.

_Eeew._ Anthony and I both frowned. "Unlock my door, Rangeman. This is scary, " muttered Anthony.

Oblivious, the two strange little men breathed, "Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Look at that frown! So—manly!"

"The hair!"

"The abs."

"The teeth. Smile for us, handsome."

I grimaced involuntarily.

"Oh yes. Oh my! Yes."

* * *

><p><em><strong>tbc<strong>_


	5. Chapter 5 One Four

**One~Four**

by Adalind

.

_[Emily]_

**I watched Anthony and his attractive yet silent companion** disappear back down the corridor in the direction of the bar. Crap, who the heck was I kidding, they were both pretty damn hot. I rubbed my fingers over my lower lip as I recalled the sweet yet heady kiss Anthony had laid on me in New Jersey. Bad move on my part, and I scrunched my eyes shut in a vain attempt to quell my raging hormones. This was my turf, and here in Stromecarron I was Emily Powers, a part time book keeper and girlfriend of David Jameson, the county archaeologist and relics repro entrepreneur. I was not a spy for MI5 and I most certainly did not kiss strange men on dark American highways in the pouring rain!

Shit, this was not good at all. I didn't know who on earth the guys were, but I was gonna bet at least next month's paycheck from the government that they were connected to that shindig over in the next glen. The Castle was hosting some fancy–arsed banking conference or something, and MI5 had heard whispers of terrorist threats on their networks that pertained to the upcoming event.

My own handler, a scary ex-SAS guy named Winter, had told me to keep my eyes open because he'd also heard from another source that the Americans were unhappy with the British security arrangements and were going to send over a couple of their own operators. The cheek of it! I'd seen the security dossier and there was nothing wrong with what MI5 and MI6 had pulled together.

Okay, so I may have been jumping the gun a little, but Stewart and his mate did not look like they were here for the scenery. There was something about them, something I'd picked up on back in New Jersey that set off very loud alarm bells in my head and I knew that I needed to keep an eye on the pair of them. At least they were staying right here and I could easily get into their rooms.

I finished up the spreadsheet I was working on, locked the safe and wandered out to my Land Rover. There was a rather nice Ferrari parked up next to it, and a brand new Porsche a couple of spots over that was sat next to Nigel's teenage son Mike's latest wreck of the week. Hmmm, I wonder who those pretty sports cars belonged to. While we did get the occasional visit from some rock star bloke with a penchant for sports cars, I hadn't heard any fan-girl type screaming in the bar so I think it was safe to say that the cars belonged to Anthony and his friend.

I tugged open the back door to my Landy and climbed into the huge boot. Under one of the bench seats was a steel lock box that contained all sorts of fun stuff. I unlocked it and then grabbed a couple bugs and two trackers. With everything locked back up I then knelt down by the back of the Ferrari and pretended to tie the lace on my shoe, and stuck one of the trackers to the underside of the back bumper. I then stood up, looked around cautiously and repeated the procedure by the Porsche. Job done, I jogged back across the road and returned to my dingy little cupboard and set up the feed for the trackers on my Blackberry. I'd get a notification if either of the cars moved, and when I was in the clear I'd go bug the rooms. I grinned—this was a piece of cake.

I turned my attention back to the impending tax return and settled in to wait until the coast was clear.

Half an hour later both of the cars were on the move. I waited until they got to the Strathloch junction to see which way they went, and they both turned off on the southern road and the direction of The Castle. If that was where they were heading then I had at least an hour to poke through their rooms. I slipped out of my office and headed to the bar and the reservations book. Anthony Stewart was checked into room six and a guy called Manoso was in eight next door. Perfect! Room six was right next to the back stairs so the chances of being spotted by any of the staff were slim. Besides, at this point in the afternoon the cleaners would have finished and the only people who should be up there were guests.

I backtracked to my office and hauled out the spare room keys from the battered plastic carton on top of the safe, checked the corridor over to make sure the coast was clear and then dashed up the stairs. The landing was silent and I pressed my ear to the door of room six. Silence, so I then knocked gently. No answer, so I stuck the key in the lock and slowly pushed the door open.

"Room service," I called out quietly, but there was no reply.

The room looked untouched, not a towel out of place, not a crinkle on the sheets. Only the suitcase by the bed and a laptop on the dresser gave any indication that the room had been let. I opened the case up first, after picking the tiny padlock with the wire end of one of the fake flowers from the vase on the window sill. Piece of shit—I wasn't sure why people bothered with the damn things when they were such a pathetic deterrent. The case revealed an assortment of ratty cut offs, threadbare t-shirts, a couple of hoodies, a wash bag and a couple of paperback spy novels. Nothing of interest at all, and not a hidden compartment to be had either. How dull.

I pulled my Leatherman from my back pocket and took the smoke alarm apart, before fitting the tiny listening devise and then reassembling everything and then glanced at the clock on my cell. Only twenty minutes had passed, so I still had plenty of time. Next I booted up the laptop and was met with a password protected system. Well, I guess that was to be expected. I shut it down again and decided to pry its secrets out of it when I had some hardware with me that would make the job easier.

With everything back in place, I ducked back out into the corridor and went into Manoso's room. A hold-all by the bathroom door, no laptop this time, and the bed sheets had been folded back like someone had inspected the bed. Man, this was boring. I rifled through the bag and found nothing of interest, other than Manoso had a serious penchant for black and didn't seem to have any underwear. Huh? And now that I thought about it, Anthony didn't seem to have any in his case either. I fanned my flushed face with my hand, before getting up and then installing the wire in the smoke detector.

So much for some excitement this afternoon, I thought as I finished up. I padded back down stairs and ran into the boss in the corridor.

"You okay, Emily?" he asked as he glanced towards the back stairs.

I nodded. "Sure, just sticking a fax under the door of room six, Nigel."

He seemed to accept my little fib and then leant up against the wall. "You busy tonight?"

I shrugged. "Not really, why?"

"Can you work the bar for me? I'm short staffed again."

Maybe the Americans would eat here tonight and I could do a little low key re-con. "That's fine. Six 'til close?"

"Yeah, thanks, doll."

"No worries, Nigel. I'm gonna head home and chill before I have to come back again later," I explained.

He nodded and ambled back off in the direction of the kitchen, and I headed off home to do a couple of hours intel gathering on Anthony Stewart and the guy called Manoso.

By eight PM the bar was rammed – every table was full in the restaurant and the back bar was packed with locals. The kitchen was running at full capacity, with the chef yelling out orders and looking seriously stressed.

The harassed waitress slapped another drinks order down on the bar. "Table twelve, Em. Could you be a star and take them over for me?"

I nodded and filled the order, placed it on a tray and then carried over two pints of Sheepshaggers, a half of Spitfire and a small bottle of merlot through the throng of guests and over to the table by the window. As I made my way back to the bar Anthony spotted me and waved.

I smiled politely back at him and Manoso, who according to my digging (AKA illegal hacking into MI6 and MI6 files) this afternoon was called Ricardo. Ricardo Carlos Manoso, an independent contractor for the American government, and CEO of Rangeman, a large security company. And the cute blond, Anthony, was his half brother, a financial wizard and one of USA's deadliest weapons. Swell, just fucking swell.

Poor Winter had gone ballistic when I told him who I had staying at the hotel. It appeared that he'd heard of these guys and was so concerned about them sticking their oar in to British security matters that he was almost considering getting on the next available flight north. I'd managed to calm him down and agree to leave the job in my hands for the moment, but I was now under strict instructions to gather as much intel as I possibly could, and by any means necessary. Winter never clarified exactly what 'by any means necessary' meant, but it sounded pretty ominous to me. This was a small village and I was going to have to watch my own backside to avoid attracting the attention of the local gossips and blow my own cover.

I slipped back behind the bar and called out 'Who's next,' to the crush of people in front of me, and didn't stop again until nearly ten o' clock.

I'd managed to get the waitress, Jenn, to cover the bar so I could sneak outside for a cigarette break. With the restaurant now empting out, things had calmed down a wee bit, and I knew Jenn could cope by herself for a couple of minutes.

I rolled a cig, took a long swig from my can of Coke and sat down wearily on the top of one of the picnic benches, my booted feet resting on the seat.

"Hey."

I looked up and found Anthony standing in front of me.

"Hey back. You ever get to check your emails?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's all good. What time do you stop serving here?" Anthony enquired.

I rubbed my tired eyes with the back of my hand. "Quarter to one for non-residents, and whenever I've had enough and want to go to bed if you're a resident. I'm pretty knackered, so please don't tell me you want to stay up all night drinking."

Anthony smiled. "I wasn't planning on it."

"That's good to hear," I said with a grin.

"Listen, Pippa—"

I cut him off abruptly. "My name is Emily, thank you. I don't know who the hell you think I am, mate, but I can assure you now that I am not her, whoever she is."

Anthony stepped in close, close enough for me to smell his shampoo, and bent down to whisper in my ear. "Nice try, little Miss MI5."

I gasped and shoved him away roughly, then jumped down from the bench. "I have to get back to work."

"We'll talk when you've finished your shift," he called out as I hurried back inside.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck! How the hell had my cover been blown? This was rapidly spiraling into a great steaming pile of rat shit. Should I call Winter? Better yet, maybe I should just leave town. I tugged open the bar door, dodged a cluster of guys huddled around the fruit machine and walked slap bang into David, my sorta, kinda, well okay, my boyfriend.

I bounced off his chest and he reached out to steady me. "Hey, love."

I dropped a swift kiss on his cheek. "Hey, later okay? I'm running solo tonight and I need to let Jenn get back to resetting the dining room."

David nodded and smacked me on the arse as I squeezed past him.

What had I done to deserve this clustefuck? I was a good person. Okay, so maybe I told one too many lies, but it was almost second nature to me and my safety relied on my tangled web of aliases and half truths. I didn't need Stewart and Manoso screwing things up for me.

...

**The night then went even further downhill.** I ended up having to break up a fight in the back bar between some of the local lads and a couple of members of a rival shinty team who happened to be in the area visiting relatives. Someone had called the police and it took me over an hour to deal with Joanna, the local copper and then assure her that I didn't need medical attention for a split lip or bloody knuckles from when I got caught in the crossfire as I turfed the miscreants out into the car park.

I then had to shove the remaining back bar patrons out into the public bar as I didn't have any staff available to mop the blood off the floor—it would have to wait until I closed up later on.

By midnight, the bar was still heaving and I Iooked over in abject horror as I spotted David sat in the corner chatting to Anthony and Ricardo.

Anthony came over to the bar to get the next round in and smiled at me. "I never knew that the Complex Atlantic Roundhouse or CAR was such a fascinating topic, Emily."

I stood up on my tiptoes and leant as far over the bar as I could muster. "You just leave him the fuck out of this, you bastard. You want to talk? Fine, but you will at least give me the professional courtesy of waiting until I've finished work. I have to live here, understand?"

He scowled. "You mean the same professional courtesy you afforded me and my brother when you searched our rooms? Messed with my laptop? Oh and ran an unauthorized MI6 search on us? You think we wouldn't find the trackers on our cars?"

I glanced around quickly to make sure that no one was listening to our conversation. "Is the British government aware that you are over here? No, I didn't think so, so you can cut the crap, Stewart. I'm just doing my job."

"And I am just doing mine. Oh, and before I forget, I'd like a Lagavulin for my brother, a pint of Spitfire for myself and a Cullin Beast for your boyfriend, please, barmaid," he said sweetly as he slapped a £50 note on the bar. "Oh and do have one yourself, love. On me."

I growled at him and poured their drinks, only just tamping down on the overwhelming urge to dump Anthony's pint in his face—the smug bastard.

"Ryan, either sup up now, or take your pint outside to finish," I cajoled as I tried to steer the eldest brother of the MacKenzie clan in the direction of the door.

He shot me a drunken smile, slid a joint out of his jacket pocket and staggered off out of the door.

I glanced around the nearly empty bar and zeroed in on my next target. "Caroline, you need to go home, love."

She looked up at me, bleary eyed and drunk as a skunk. "Huh?"

"Go home."

She picked up the half empty bottle of wine, burst into song and made her way over to the door. "I'll just…"

"Be on your way," I finished for her as I started stacking the stools up on the tables so I could hoover.

David was three sheets to the wind and huddled in the corner with the chef, Andy. They were deep in discussion over Cadian Shock Troops, drop pods and if there was such a thing as lucky dice. Ah yes, the only two war gaming addicts in the village.

Andy smiled at me as I approached. "Hey, Em!"

I smiled back. "Come on you two, let's take this riveting conversation outside."

David grinned. "We can wait for you to finish, love."

Crap, I had to get rid of them. "Have you seen the state of the back bar? I'm going to be scrubbing the blood of the walls for hours. Why don't you two go back to Andy's and have a quick game of War Hammer 40K?"

Thankfully both men agreed with my stunning idea and picked up their jackets.

David slipped on his floor length black leather coat and pulled my close. "Will I see you later, baby?"

I looked around the messy bar and sighed. "Probably not. Call me tomorrow?"

"Sure thing. I love you," he said as he kissed me.

I kissed him back and tried my best to smile. "Night, David."

The pair of war gamers headed off out the side door and I locked up behind them. Anthony and Ricardo were now sat in front of the few remaining embers of the coal fire. I ignored them and went to fill up the mop bucket with boiling water and disinfectant so I could clean up the remains of the earlier disturbance.

The back bar was too quiet, the only sounds the slosh of water as I cleaned, and the creaking of the old building, so I unlocked the jukebox and put a handful of free plays on it.

Rammstein flowed out of the speakers as I leaned heavily on the mop in my hands and tried desperately to fight the urge to burst into tears. A gentle hand on my shoulder scared the hell out of me and I whipped around and came face to face with Anthony.

He frowned and gently touched his fingers to the cut on my lip. "Is being a barmaid in this place always so hazardous?"

I brought my hand up to push him away, but he took a hold of it, inspected my bloodied knuckles and then kissed them lightly.

I managed to snatch my hand back. "What do you want?"

He shrugged. "World peace?"

"You'd be out of a job, bro," Ricardo said as he emerged from behind the bar and leant up against the wall.

Anthony grinned. "More time to go surfing, dude!"

"What do you want?" I asked again. "Please—look I just want to finish cleaning up this mess and then go home and fall into bed. I'm tired, I have a pounding headache and my feet are killing me. Either say what you have to say, or better yet, save the interrogation until the morning."

Anthony picked me up and I let out a shriek. He set me down on the bar top, grabbed a clean looking bar towel and filled it with ice and then pressed the cloth to my damaged hand. "Sit still."

"But…"

He shook his head and picked up my mop. "I'll talk and mop, and you sit there and listen to me. Deal?"

I nodded. "Okay."

Ricardo came back in, though I'd never even seen him leave in the first place, and he set a bottle of water and a packet of pain killers next to me. I shot him a small smile. "Thank you."

"_De nada_, babe," he replied.

"So," Anthony said as he set to work. "You know who we are, and we know who you are, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I guess so."

"So we both have the same objective—to watch out for terrorists and make sure that the conference goes off without a hitch, agreed?"

I nodded again.

"Now the only advantage you have over us is that you have intimate knowledge of the local area. However we have access to a hell of a lot more intel and better toys, so I propose the following: we work together."

I opened my mouth, shut it again and then laughed. "Are you crazy?"

Anthony just smiled.

"But if my boss finds out that I'm even talking to you guys…"

"It'll be fine," Anthony assured me. "And will you at least drink the water if you don't want the pills? You've been working for nearly eight hours straight and a can of Coke is certainly not enough fluids."

"Fine," I muttered as I twisted the cap off the bottle and took a swig.

"So can we work together, Emily?" Anthony asked.

I stared down at my boots and sighed "I guess."

* * *

><p>tbc<p> 


	6. Chapter 6 One Five

_**Previously on ONE: **_

So," Anthony said, "we both have the same objective; to watch out for terrorists and make sure that the conference goes off without a hitch, agreed?"

Emily stared down at her boots and sighed. "I guess."

* * *

><p><strong>One  Five **[by sunny]

.

.

_[Ranger]_

**It's a misty morning in the Highlands.** I'm driving the Porsche back over these shitty roads. Again. Another drive to The Castle.

I got an early morning wakeup call from the MI5 girl, she told me there was a conference security briefing this morning: "Big white tent, 8 AM." Anthony was long gone, he'd gotten himself up and out pre-dawn, back to his suite at The Castle, back to his Master of the Universe persona. Yesterday when we returned to Inverness, he'd calmly rounded up his crew, charged the heli on his AmEx Black card, sent someone to Edinburgh —"or London, man. Just Do IT."/" Yessir, Mr. Stewart."—for sat phone/ computer parts, and waved goodbye. His entourage really wasn't that huge, just his PA Danielle, a couple young male gofers, and his MIB bodyguards. And his clothes.

Obviously he'd promptly ditched them all at The Conference Center because by the time I drove to Stromecarron from Inverness, his Ferrari was parked in the crappy lot of the Stromecarron Hotel. I'm still not sure if he came back last night because he's bored with his banking self, or to watch my back...or because he is, well, _interested_ in the red-haired agent calling herself Emily Powers.

My mind wanders off to her for a moment as I swerve around yet another pothole in this goat track of a road. The roads aren't really worse than the roads in Jersey. Just a lot narrower. And of course the natives insist on driving on the wrong side of the street. Even in the 'Stans they don't drive on the wrong side of the road.

Back to the woman. It bothers me that we met Powers before, that night in Jersey. Sure it was snowing and we were all tired, cold...and on the hunt for Bailey. Though at that point we didn't know we were after Bailey. But this woman—Pippa? Emily?-she had to be pretty fucking good because I'd felt no _frisson_ of suspicion beyond the Bailey thing, the Dervla connection. What Stephanie would call my spidey sense. Now she turns up here?

I'm not fond of coincidences.

I take a call on my rental's integrated bluetooth, set up some things, gather a bit more intell. And ten minutes later I drive over the excruciatingly picturesque bridge and park in the staff lot next to Emily's huge white Defender. I admire it again while I check my weapons and lock the Porsche. The Land Rover is well-maintained—big, white, utilitarian—and really very cool. _If it was black..._I quash a twinge of car envy, beep the Porsche's locks. Just checking.

Emily gets out and gives me a nod, no smile.

"I especially like the galvanized panels, babe. And the snorkel."

She eyes me coolly. "The back roads flood sometimes. Even the main road, if the tide is high." She shrugs a little, just a fact of life to her.

"Yeah I saw the golf course. Seventh hole was underwater yesterday. The flag was bobbing on the waves."

"Shit happens."

I nod a little.

She decides to move on, motions to a large white tent back on the mainland, over the little bridge. The Castle and the new hotel are built on a minuscule island and take up all the excess space. Emily says, "Usually they use that tent for weddings. But since the Castle is so packed with big shots and their staffs, the hotel people have given it to the various security groups for briefings and so on. Security headquarters."

"Very covert," I deadpan. We head to the tent, chatting fairly amiably.

"Covert is not part of these peoples' world, Ricardo. These are the armed bodyguard types, or military units. Some cops..."

"Ranger."

"Huh?"

"People call me Ranger. Not Ricardo."

"Oh? Just like in those books...?"

"Books?"

"Why do people call _you_ Ranger?"

"It's a street name, babe."

"Hmmm." Then, "Nice suit. Love the flag pin."

"It's my disguise, " I joke. But it was. Is.

"Cute," smirks Emily.

"So how will _you_ fit in here, little Miss Secret Agent?"

"Who me? I'm just a server. Extra help. _Coffee? Tea? Pastry, sir?_" She cocks her hip and grins. Waves me into the big tent.

The crowded room goes silent for a second, even the SAS major who is on the dais giving out orders stumbles over his words when he sees me. Dervla, I mean Emily, fades away, leaves me stranded. I look around for familiar faces.

... ... ...

_[POV Ian Reynolds Det. Inspector, _

_New Scotland Yard, ex-SAS operator]_

**_World Economic Conference, The Castle.__ Scotland._ I work out of Edinburgh,** but here I am, seconded to this crazed international conglomeration of security units. I'm beginning to despair of ever getting anywhere with my normal cases—if a serial killer and a suicide / accidental death of an MSP could be considered normal. [member of Scottish Parliament]

The SAS major who had declared himself in charge of today's proceedings was blabbing on about how The Castle's fortification had never been breached. And how all the various agents should just keep their own party out of trouble, under control—and all would be well. Translators mumbled in the background. If a crisis did develop, it would be chaos, I thought gloomily. I desperately wanted a strong plain coffee and a cigarette, but so far no food had been offered. And no one seemed to smoke.

I'm a Detective Inspector, a cop of sorts. And I still work the streets. A snitch told me about a conversation overheard—or eavesdropped upon, or hacked?—angry men with a mission, men whose leader had taught them to hate the modern world, hate democracy and capitalism. A man who preached about decadence and a true path to...well, who the fuck knew? _Probably Islamic fundamentalists,_ the CI had whispered, looking over his shoulder. _I heard them saying, We must follow the One true path..._

When I passed the info on, I was first scoffed at. Then handed the job. Fucking perfect.

And so I was here in the butt end of Scotland hoping to meet with a man who could maybe help. If he wanted to. If the price was right...

When he called earlier, I suggested we meet in the police tent at The Castle. My partner Sara Smith and I sat in the back where the few female security agents had congregated, clustering together in defense against the relentless jibes from the male agents. Scotland's forces aren't big on being PC.

I figured I was allowed to sit in this row only because of my age and bad plainclothes suit. And now I was staring into my weak tea, made in my room from tap water. And wondering when Ranger would show up.

Oh—now.

I knew Ranger had arrived because there was one of those weird little blips of silence that so often announced the presence of the young American. This pause was followed by the usual accompanying crash as someone tripped and dropped a tray.

Even Major Blake fell silent for a few beats.

I idly wondered what it would be like to be Ranger, so bloody beautiful—and so scary—that your mere arrival caused the earth to pause, if only for awhile. And to know that if you wanted the earth to really stop and take notice, you had only to smile. Or pull out your guns. Ranger Manoso was always armed. And always dangerous.

No I am not gay! But he is what he is and it works better if we just all accept it, understood?

The briefing started up again, the major talking on, but now with a quiet murmuring in the background. Giggles, whispers.

A woman loudly whispered, "Major hottie!"

I _turned_ to her and contradicted, "Not Major. Colonel."

And the whole group of police women said, "Huh?"

I opened my mouth to explain that Ranger Manoso was a US Special Forces Colonel, not a Major. But then realized they meant "big-time" or "very"—they weren't discussing the man's military rank. Sometimes I feel like I'm a million years old...and out of sync.

And indeed his rank was not visible. Today Ranger was apparently masquerading as a US Secret Service agent. And, in a certain way, Ranger looked the part. His hair was cut short; he was wearing a less than wonderful but still nice off the rack navy blue suit, white shirt, dark red tie, black cop shoes, little flag in his lapel and clear plastic ear comm-cord. Dark sunglasses that he'd thoughtlessly removed when he entered the tent, eliciting the _holy shit_ comments and the crashes.

On the other hand,the suit did not really manage, or even try—to disguise the double shoulder holster and Glock 9 mms that were his trademark weapons. The sunglasses looked like $500.00 Oakleys. And he wore a platinum Rolex watch.

Sara, my partner, who also knew Manoso from back in the day, whispered, "It must kill him to have to wear navy!"

I said, "What about the cut? Off the rack?"

"No way. Armani couture? Bespoke specially cut to look bad?"

I scoffed, "Only Ranger."

Sara laughed. "And the earrings. Jesus!"

Ranger was wearing his very non-regulation, trademark diamond gangbanger ear studs. I wondered aloud, "How is that possible, don't they vet these guys?"

But of course they did and Ranger had any and all clearances plus the training and then some. He was here, on the prowl, on the job. Someone high up had sent him, paid him, I was sure.

Ranger worked his way over to us, slid into the saved seat next to Sara. We both leaned in, smiled at him, amused by his "undercover" get-up.

Ranger stared back. Finally, he said, "What."

Sara said, "Your earrings. Your guns."

I said, "Poor Treasury Secretary Balter, if you show up on his security detail, he'll crap himself from fright."

"Excellent," said Ranger. And omigod, he smiled, kissed Sara's cheek. And everyone behind us gasped.

Ranger's eyes narrowed as he turned to me and shook my hand.

He said, "What's up?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but the stir caused by his appearance had now captured the attention of Major Blake. And like a fussy schoolteacher, Blake said, "You in the back! Please pay attention! Agent! You have something to share with the group?"

Manoso ignored him. Blake ground out in his best parade voice, "Care to introduce yourself? We haven't heard your name yet, friend."

Ranger tipped back his metal folding chair, said, "That's because I haven't said it, Major. But it will come to you...Think, maybe—Fallujah? Four, five years ago?" Then to me and Sara, "Let's go somewhere else to talk, okay?"

... ... ... ...

_[Ranger]_

**No sense sticking around, sniping** (heh heh) with Blake the incompetent. I've been here three minutes and the man is already getting repetitive. As if the foreign agents in the room were slightly stupid, slow learners. I catch Emily's eye. She is loaded with a big tray of coffee and crullers, but she simply hefts it onto her shoulder and follows me and the two Scottish cops out into the morning sunshine. We all grab mugs of the strong black coffee, but I glare Reynolds' fast appearing cigarette back into the pack, back into his pocket. He frowns at me. And then Emily lights up.

"We don't smoke on this job, Powers," I grate out.

She blows smoke past my ear and asks, "Why the fuck not?"

"Because I said so."

She grinds out the cigarette, mumbling, "Yes dad."

We lean our asses against the ancient (or I guess, _not_) seawall and talk in low tones.

Reynolds' intell matches mine. Possible terrorist attack. Jihadists. Nebulous but _something_ is looming.

I add the info about stolen missiles in Kandahar. "But how will they bring them into the UK?" I ask. "Thoughts?"

"They can ferry them in by boat, probably," answers Reynolds. "The east coast of England is not that far from, say, the Netherlands or Belgium? Or even Germany."

"Germany is a long chilly boat trip over the North Sea, Ian," I point out.

"Then maybe England, like I said."

Emily nods. "Or fly it/them in by heli, drop the missiles and a raft?"

I agree. "The coastline here is indefensible. And undefended."

Reynolds says, "We need more details, Ranger. What do these missiles look like? How big are they? Tech stuff."

Anthony suddenly appears out of nowhere and he nods politely to Reynolds and kisses Sara, says, "I'll get on it right away. My man delivered the sat phone-computer parts just now. He had to go to London for the hook-up...stuff."

"And I'll look into passport control," says Reynolds."Influx of possible cell members, extra arrivals from Iraq or Afghanistan maybe."

"Or Iran, Pakistan?" offers Sara.

I nod. "Fine. We'll meet at the Stromecarron Inn at nineteen hundred hours and regroup."

"Not sooner? We're running out of time, Ranger."

Anthony says, "Tee-off's at eleven, man. We're playing Stromecarron! It's, like, historic. A pasture course."

A pause while we all decide not to ask.

"Better you than me, man," says Reynolds. He and Sara head back into the tent.

Anthony smiles at Emily."Do you play, sweetheart?"

"Not golf."

... ... ...

tbc


	7. Chapter 7 One Six

—

* * *

><p><strong>One - Six<strong>

.

by Adalind, tweaked a bit by sunny for continuity

.

_previously: Anthony smiled at Emily."Do you play, sweetheart?"_

_"Not golf."_

.

_[Ranger]_

**Anthony's version of a wolf grin** spread across his face. "Really...?"

Emily cocked her hip and smiled at him. "Yeah..."

Jeez. I cleared my throat and the heated gaze between the two of them was instantly broken. Emily blushed and looked away.

Anthony scowled at me. _What?_

_Leave her alone, bro, _I chastised.

_You're not my keeper, Ricky, _he sneered.

_No, but her boyfriend may not like your interest in her,_ I shot back.

Anthony's mental shields slammed into place and he stalked off.

I shook my head at his display—getting involved with the locals was never a good idea, especially ones that had boyfriends already.

"I'll see you back in Stromecarron," he called over his shoulder.

I nodded and looked back at Emily. "Have you finished serving coffee?"

"Yeah. Didn't learn much, but then I wasn't expecting to anyway. Look, I gotta head out as I have to be at work in a few. The hotel payroll won't run itself."

"I'll walk you to your car," I offered.

Emily shrugged. "Whatever."

I touched her gently on the arm. "Do you have a problem with me, Emily?"

She snorted. "No, why should I?"

I followed her across the bridge towards the castle and hotel. "Seems like I make you nervous."

"Just used to working solo, that's all," she said as we entered the staff parking lot.

"Okay."

Emily stopped suddenly, frowned and then turned in a slow circle. "Where the fuck is my Landy?"

I glanced around the lot, but couldn't see it. "It should be next to my Porsche."

She set off across the gravel and came to a halt in the large empty space next to my rental. "What the bloody hell is going on? Some effing git has nicked my damn Defender!"

Anthony silently reappeared by my side, hand on his gun. The commotion had obviously caught his attention. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

Emily stamped her foot in rage. "Some fucking bastard has stolen my car, that's what's bloody wrong, Anthony!"

I looked at the seething young woman in front of me and frowned. "It happens all the time, Emily. What's the problem?"

"Not in the effing Highlands!" she screeched as she resumed her pacing.

I looked to Anthony, who just shrugged and shook his head slightly. _Damned if I know, bro._

"It's just a car," I continued. A very nice car, but just another car none the less.

Her bottom lip wobbled, like she was about to burst into tears. "But that's my Land Rover! How could it just be gone?"

"Guess they just busted the locks, bypassed the anti-theft system and then hotwired it," Anthony suggested.

Emily snorted. "This is the Highlands! No one locks their car. Shit, no one steals cars around here! And now... some fuckers have stolen my baby. How dare they?"

I frowned. "What do you mean that you don't lock your car?"

She looked at me like I was an idiot. "Duh, it's the Highlands, Ranger! No one locks their car or their front door, even when they go on holiday. Why would they want to? No one steals anything around here. Shit, why did it have to be my Landy? There must be a couple of million quid in cars here at the moment, so why on earth did these bastards nick my Defender? It just doesn't make any sense at all."

"Less conspicuous, maybe?" Anthony offered.

"How is a two-ton white truck less conspicuous?" she shrieked.

Anthony and I winced.

Emily slumped against the hood of my Porsche and then let out an almighty yelp as the alarm went off. I beeped the locks to silence the din and looked to Anthony. "I've got this covered. I'll see you at the first tee."

My brother nodded and then swiftly vanished again. I walked up to Emily and stood in front of her. "You want to report this to the police here or back in Stromecarron?"

"Whatever," she muttered.

I reached out to tuck a curl behind her ear and she jerked back. I dropped my hand and told her, "We'll get it taken care of, don't worry. I know you didn't lock it, but you did have insurance, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but what the hell am I supposed to drive now? And how the hell am I going to get to work?"

I waved my car keys in front of her. "I'll give you a lift to the hotel."

A wicked smile spread across her face. "Can I drive?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Come on, Ranger, I didn't have to tell you about that meeting this morning, you know."

"Yes, but it is common courtesy to inform those you are working with when something like that comes up."

She smiled again. "Exactly, and we are working together, so that would make the Porsche like a company car or something. So there's no reason why your 'work colleague' can't drive it, is there?"

I had to give her kudos for trying here. "No."

A myriad of emotions flickered across her face, before she squared her shoulders and glared at me. "Fine."

I nodded and then opened the passenger side door for her, but when I looked up Emily had vanished. I glanced around and caught her walking towards the exit. I shook my head, slammed the car door and set off after her. "Now what?"

"What does it look like? I'm walking back to the village."

I let out an exasperated sigh. "It's twenty miles, Powers."

"So I'll hitch a damn lift, Ranger."

I grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face me. "Damn it, Emily! Grow up. I don't have time for tantrums right now."

She stamped the heel of her boot down on my foot and tried to break out of my vise-like grip on her arm. "Let me the fuck go," she spat out angrily.

"Stop acting like a brat and I will," I shot back as I ignored her struggles.

Emily sucked in a breath like I'd slapped her and with a flick of her wrist a small knife slid into her hand. "Fuck you, Manoso!"

I shook my head. "I can't believe that you just did that."

"You don't scare me, buddy."

"Then you're more stupid than I thought," I replied menacingly in her ear.

She froze in my grasp. "Let me go."

"Put the knife away, little girl."

"Stop ordering me around!"

"Put the damn knife away, Bailey."

"What did you call me?" she asked in confusion.

Shit! I slid the knife out of her hand and let go of her arm. "Nothing."

She turned to face me. "Who's Bailey? You called me that in New Jersey."

I smiled, thankful that her slip-up would now detract from my own. "Why did you lie to me yesterday about New Jersey?"

Emily rubbed her arm slowly. "Because I have to live here, I can't have people finding out about who I am."

"Who are you?" I asked.

She backed up a step.

"Emily, who's Dervla?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what you are talking about. _You_ don't know what you're talking about."

"Who are you, Emily?" I asked again as I offered her the throwing knife, hilt first, and she reached out cautiously to take it.

"Whoever I'm paid to be, Ricardo Carlos Manoso —just like you are," she replied. She snatched the knife out of my hand.

My blank mask dropped into place and this time it was I who took a step back. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Exactly," she said with a curt nod. "Now are you going to give me the damn keys, or do I have to hitch a ride back to Lochcarron?"

I tossed her the keys. "Fine."

"Atta boy, Ricky," she said with a grin as she ruffled my hair and walked back to the Porsche.

"Bitch," I muttered under my breath as I followed her.

"Arsehole," she called out sweetly as she slid into the car, adjusted the seat and mirrors and then turned the engine over as I climbed in beside her.

"I hope you know what you're doing," I gritted out as she slammed the gear shift into reverse and tore out of the parking space.

"Trust me," she said with a grin as she whipped the car around and headed over the narrow bridge.

"This is an expensive rental, Emily," I warned as I put a hand on the dash to brace myself.

She turned out onto the main road, put her foot to the floor and shifted smoothly up through the gears. "We're going to do this, babe," she said. "And it's going to be good."

tbc


	8. Chapter 8 One Seven

**a/n Thank you for taking the time to review! Your feedback is wonderful and very appreciated! love, sunny**

* * *

><p><strong>One<strong>

**.**

**.**

_**previously on ONE: **_"Who are you, Emily?" I asked.

"Whoever I'm paid to be, Ricardo Carlos Manoso; just like you are," she replied as she snatched the knife out of my hand.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Exactly," she said. "Now are you going to give me the damn keys, or do I have to hitch a ride back to Stromecarron?"

"Fine," I growled as I tossed her the keys.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7 <strong>by sunny

**. **

_Ranger_

**The MI5 agent currently known** as Emily Powers seemed competent enough so I sat back and let her drive. After a few minutes of strained silence I reached out and began fiddling with the Porsche's integral GPS system. I _never_ fidget...but something about Emily threw off my usual equilibrium. _Not good._

"What the bloody fuck are you doing?" she suddenly demanded.

"Setting the GPS. It will show the location of the Stromecarron police station."

"Like I don't know the fucking way? Besides I don't need to go to the police station."

"You have to report your truck stolen, don't you?"

She heaved a put-upon sigh and said, "Either my Landy will show up—everyone local knows my truck—or it is long gone to a chop shop somewhere in Inverness or Edinburgh."

Her voice wobbled again. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. If she was going to burst into tears I didn't want her driving my rented Porsche, did I? Her chin trembled then she bit down hard on her lower lip with her pretty white teeth; she made a determined frowny face, like a child.

Then a tear slowly trailed down her pale check. And another.

She pulled to the side of the narrow road and shifted into neutral, yanked the parking brake. More silence because I for one had no idea what to say. Her attachment to her car seemed overly emotional to me—I'm used to Stephanie who can walk away from yet another vehicular explosion with a shrug and a joke about car heaven. I considered telling Dervla, I mean Emily, about Steph and the Porsche I got just for her and the garbage truck, thinking it would make her laugh. But I decided to let it go.

Sharing is not part of my skill set.

I said, "I saw a body shop on the way into town yesterday. It said Used Cars/ Rentals, had a lot. Why don't we stop there and rent you something until the Landy shows up?" I heard myself speaking, made a mental grimace: _Girl loses car/ I replace car ASAP_. My version of being sympathetic, my idea of consolation.

"Can't afford that!" She put the Porsche back in gear and began driving again.

"Your insurance should pay for a rental while the theft is resolved."

"Maybe in your world." She added quickly, ''I'll stop off at the Hotel. I'm working on payroll, people need to get paid. Including me."

"Where will you be later?"

"Why?"

"How will you get home?"

"I'm working the happy hour shift at the bar, David can take me home.''

''Call me if you need—anything.''

''Right. Enjoy your golf game.''

She parked, got out, grabbed her purse and slammed the door. I got out too and watched her storm into the hotel, red hair flying.

... ... ...

_Anthony_

**"Tee off's at 11, bro,"** I said into my sat phone. Ranger was working on being late, unusual for him.

"I'm one minute out. I'll meet you at the clubhouse." He cut the Bluetooth connection instantly, I was thinking he was annoyed about our little mental altercation earlier. I don't usually get let myself get angry with my older brothers. I'm fond of Nick, who is essentially my business partner as well as my half-brother, and I love Ranger, he's my hero and yet somehow, weirdly, he's like a part of myself in an unspoken way.

...But it pissed me off, there he is all happy with Stephanie, this beautiful, incredible woman I am trying very hard not to love too—and he's gonna preach to me about a little flirting with the adorable Emily? Be all prissy about her boyfriend? What's with that? Hey, I've proved I know how to keep hands off with another man's woman, haven't I? I don't need Saint Ranger in my head.

_Sorry. I know it's not easy._

Oh. Guess I didn't shield out my rant so well.

I stood on the tiny porch of the tiny clubhouse at Stromecarron Links and watched Ranger haul his clubs out of the Porsche's rear cargo space. He hefted his heavy bag over his shoulder and approached up the gravel path. The mist from the loch curled around his dark clad form and for a moment even I felt intimidated.

"We okay?" asked Ranger.

''Sure. Uh, you wanna ride or walk?''

''Let's get a cart." He turned to investigate the clubhouse. It was dark and locked.

I said, ''There's a money box out back with the golf carts. Fifteen pounds for 9 holes, thirty for 18. Cart costs 45 pounds, _use all day_, it says.''

''Trusting.''

''Yeah, guess that's why Emily was so shocked about her car."

"Mmm."

I stuffed a big wad of British bank notes into the wooden box bolted by the front door, helped ourselves to pencils and scorecards that were in a smaller box next to the money box.

We ducked around the corner of the cart shed. Hearing voices inside both Ranger and I juggled our golf bags and put hands on our guns. We were greeted not by Al Qaeda terrorists but by a tiny wizened little man on a scooter or mobility cart—one of those little rides for handicapped or elderly people. The man was a gnome, the best of Scottish stereotypes: small, graying ginger hair—mostly tufting out of his ears, liver-spotted balding head and hands. Enormous dark glasses like cataract patients wear. Plaid sweater, corduroy trousers. Expensive cleats and clubs. The scooter was brilliant candy apple red.

"G'day, mates,'' said the gnome, in the accents of Sydney, Australia. Oh. I guess not a _Scottish_ stereotype after all.

Ranger nodded politely, I said, "Hey, man."

"You blokes looking for a foursome?"

_Not really..._

"Well..."

He rolled up to us on his little machine and smiled. Bad teeth. Ranger politely said, "You play, sir?''

"Of course I bloody well play, mate! Why else would I hang out at the golf course in the rain?"

"Rain?"

"Goin' te rain soon..." said another ancient voice. Omigod, a second gnome, though this one was on his own two feet. And chubby.

Gnome number one piped up, "We haven't heard your names yet, my friends."

"That's because I haven't said them yet," growled Ranger.

"Well? Are we a foursome or not, mates? Can't slow up the course, y'know," said gnome two.

There were no other players here today, probably no people at all for miles around, but it's considered impolite to refuse to make a foursome so we introduced ourselves and shook hands. Elmer was the Aussie, Gerald the Brit. We rolled over to the first tee, me and Ranger in one cart, Gerald in his cart, Elmer on his scooter.

No caddies.

"You think he hits from the scooter, dude? I mean, how does that work?"

Ranger shrugged.

At the first tee, Elmer parked the scooter, hopped off and scurried over to set his ball on the tee. "Age before beauty, men!" he cackled.

Ranger said, "What?"

Gerald spoke softly. "He walks just fine. He just doesn't care for the course's carts. So, ah, ...''

"Rustbuckets!'' yelled Elmer and hit a long drive down the fairway. The ball flew straight and disappeared into the mist. _Hmmmm._

Gerald teed off next—the age thing—and Elmer came back to watch with me and Ranger. He told us, "Had eye surgery, not supposed to drive! So my daughter got me this little mobility unit. Ha! On these roads? I'd be a dead man, not just an old man. So I still drive my Cadillac, use the machine for golf. Everybody's happy."

_Maybe not everybody_, I thought and made a mental note to steer clear of his Caddie, can't be too many of those up here in the Highlands.

... ... ...

_Ranger_

**Despite the misty rain and our odd companions** the game was good. Golf is relaxing if you play well. You're outside in the fresh air, no phones, no PAs, no interruptions. No crises. You have to totally focus on the mechanics of the sport, so other worries cannot intrude, golf is your world for those three or so hours. On the other hand, our companions tried to talk us into wagering large sums on the game.(no). And now there seemed to be some shaggy brown cattle, or cows? grazing on the green at the fourth hole.

Elmer said, "Watch where you walk."

"Uh huh.''

Gerald spoke up. "This must seem pretty primitive to you Yanks."

Anthony said, ''It's not primitive, sir. It's pristine. Stromecarron Links is well-known, it's a privilege to play here."

''Ah. So you know about the course? More than a links course?"

''Yes, it's like a _pasture_ course." Anthony sighed happily. "Less than one hundred exist in the entire world. It's how golf should be, how it once was. Designed by farmers and fisherman, played in their fields and pastures, among the sheep and cows, on the strand where they pulled ashore the catch each day. It's-authentic, dude. It's truth...and truth is not always appearances. It's the, well, like, experience. Existential."

_Existential golf, go figure_. I said, "Yeah, cow pads and high tide...the original hazards."

"They don't call it the rough for nothing, boys," nodded Gerald.

"And we have a dragon!" grinned Elmer.

"Heh heh heh...I don't think so,'' deadpanned Anthony.

"What you never heard of Nessie? The Loch Ness Monster?''

"This isn't Loch Ness.''

"And there can be only one? How would she survive? Nay, lad, her sister lives right here in Loch Stromach's waters. She lurks around the flag on the eight hole.''

''Okaaaaay."

Elmer sank his putt and came back. Anthony lined up his own shot and Elmer added, "Don't say we didn't warn you!" Anthony froze for a second on his backswing, then smoothly sank his own ball into the cup. He grinned at Elmer. "Good try, dude. But it will take more than fairytale dragons to beat me at this game."

Gerald looked philosophical, Elmer just grinned, said, "Hadda try, mate."

Gerald mumbled, "Glad we didn't wager."

At Stromecarron if you want to play 18 holes you have to go around the 9-hole course twice. There are eleven tees so it's not as boring as it sounds. Gerald and Elmer left us after the ninth hole—no Lochie lurking today—and Anthony and I continued our game in companionable silence. I had planned to talk to him about the conference, was he okay with the banking shit, was he bored stiff, and resentful, how the hell did it feel to be 27 years old and run one of the largest private banks in the world. A bored, resentful operative is not a good thing in our world. We may have ESP but those kinds of thoughts don't transfer well...sometimes you just have to ask. But I decided to let it go and enjoy the day's peace. And rain...and fog.

Later when we packed our clubs into our ridiculously small vehicles, my brother looked over at me and smiled a little. He said, "I don't mind, Ranger. Don't waste your time worrying about me."

?

"Sure it gets tedious but, well, you know, like—I really like being really _really_ rich.''

_Yeah. Me too._

I followed him back to the pub at the Stromecarron Hotel.

tbc

* * *

><p><strong>an **"Pasture golf" really exists and is followed by a small group of aficionados who love its authenticity. Just for the record, the golf course near where I have the guys grow up is also built right on the water in the US; it is a historic "links" course [not pasture] and yes, it too floods during storms and waves have been known to crash over the seawall during play.


	9. Chapter 9 One Eight

**a/n **For those readers who are asking for Stephanie: please remember my stories are NOT romances, they are about Ranger and his world, his life. Stephanie is always in his heart, but on the job she cannot be in the forefront of his thoughts. If he was moping over Stephanie, the distraction & lack of focus could get Ranger killed. He's too professional for that, right?

**Thx for reviewing!**

* * *

><p><strong>One ~ Eight<strong>

by Adalind w/ a bit by sunny

.

_[Ranger]_

**Anthony spent the afternoon digging up intel** on the missing weapons and I took the Porsche over the mountain to a small village called Applecross. The single track road was the highest in the entire UK and wound along a valley and then up through a series of extreme hairpin bends to the summit, before dropping back down the other side and across rolling moorland. The views had been amazing, and I'd then taken the coast road back, which was just as beautiful.

The Porsche loved every minute. And I had familiarized myself with the terrain and local roads.

I arrived at the hotel for the dinner meeting with Ian and Sara, the Scotland Yard cops. The dining room was packe—-I fought my way through the crush of the front bar, finally spotted them with Anthony at a small table next to the fireplace. A harassed looking waitress, the same one as last night, was dashing back and forth and Emily was still behind the bar. I thought she'd have finished by now. She looked stressed and her red hair had turned into a mass of wild corkscrew curls due to the heat in the room.

Emily nodded in my direction as I slipped through the crowd to the tiny table. She wiped the sweat from her brow with a bar rag and then turned away from me and shoved through the door into the back bar to serve some customers in there.

I dropped into the last seat at the table and Anthony handed me a menu.

Sara smiled. "We decided to eat and talk. No one will be able to hear what we're talking about in here anyway."

_You could drop a bomb in here and no one would hear it..._

I flipped the menu open. "Sounds like a plan to me."

We made small talk about the weather and the scenery until the waitress came over. I had to give the young woman credit—she managed to deliver our drinks without spilling a drop, despite the amount of jostling people in her way and the blinding smile that Anthony sent in her direction.

Our food arrived. We dug in, golf makes you hungry-and I said to Anthony, "Any luck?"

He aimed the luminous million dollar smile at Sara who grinned back. He said, "Maybe."

"Any luck _getting us some intel_, bro," I said coldly. The boy would flirt with Lassie, I swear—and Sara was no dog. Slim, cool and fair-haired, she was more than presentable, she was very hot. In an ice cold Brit cop kind of way.

"I , like, took my laptop to the committee meeting and while the UN economics dude rambled on about who the fuck knows what, I hacked around some, you know, servers," he said.

I nodded a little. No doubt he'd hacked into top secret nets of governments worldwide. Illegal as , but after all he probably designed their security software...and they bought it. So—

_Buyer beware._

I made a finger gesture, _go on._

He said, "Okay, the missing weapons are a hot topic. It looks like they came over into Pakistan from Afghanistan. The Pakistan authorities have enough on their plate with the chronic floods wracking their country and they missed—or ignored—the ordinance coming over the border. How they moved them into this country is a little unclear, but they _are _here and in the hands of terrorists. No doubt plenty of jihadist money changed hands."

"Can't you trace that?" I asked.

"Not in one busy afternoon, dude. Give me a break." He went on, "The stolen/missing weapons are a reasonable size caliber surface to air missile—probably old Russian stock from eons ago, and could be launched from the back of a pickup truck. And that gives us a problem—whatever and whoever it is we're looking for is clearly mobile and only needs to get within a few miles of the conference." He waved a vague hand. "Lotta open country to launch from. This place is almost as empty as the mountains east of Kabul."

We all thought this over as we finished our meal—excellent local seafood—in silence. Sara ordered dessert and the rest of us got coffee and instead of sitting around and waiting I got up to relay the weapons intel to Emily. She beckoned me behind the bar and I followed her through the back room and into a white walled beer storeroom.

She gave me a shrug. "The Spitfire has gone off and I need to change the barrel, so this is as good a place as any to talk, Ranger."

"Spitfire?" I asked, picturing a WW2 fighter plane.

"Local ale, mate. You've been drinking it all night."

"Good beer, Em."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm a Corona or Dos Equis guy myself."

"Corona is pure piss, Ranger. They don't even bother with dark bottles."

I shrugged, leaned up against the brick wall of the tiny cellar and enjoyed the cool air as I watched her haul the empty keg out of the way and set up the new one. She looked so competent I decided not to offer my help. Instead I told her, "We've got problems."

Emily snorted. "Tell me something I don't know. I've got a bunch of nasty looking scum in the back bar looking to start a fight with the locals, the local police woman is in the restaurant on her night off and is as drunk as a skunk, which means I'm gonna have to wait thirty minutes for the relief boys to haul arse up from Kyle PD if I have any problems and I'm not even supposed to be here tonight."

"Well, we've got a bunch of terrorists armed with rockets and we're pretty sure that they're mobile and can launch from anywhere in a five mile radius of the castle."

She dropped down heavily on top of the empty keg and ran her hands through her tangled hair. "Can you say clusterfuck, mate?"

"Exactly. I'll let you get back to work. We can talk more after closing, okay?"

Emily nodded. "No worries."

I left her in the cellar, went back into the scruffy rear bar and scanned the occupants as I moved towards the door to the other room. There was a group of four young men clustered around the pool table and they didn't look like they fit. They weren't local and they didn't look like tourists either. Mostly they looked like a few of Vinnie Plum's more lowlife customers, felon written all over them.

The blond man with short spiky hair and prison tattoos caught my gaze. "What the fuck are you looking at, you twat?" he yelled at me.

I gave him my blank look in response, but the foolish young man seemed unperturbed by it.

He elbowed a couple of girls out of the way and approached the bar. "You startin' something?" he sneered in an English accent.

I felt Emily come up behind me, her hand pressed to my back. "Oi! Don't make me throw you out, buddy!"

The piece of shit held his hands up and stepped backwards. "Just being friendly, love."

"And see that it stays that way, _love_ or I'll toss your arse out of here in a heartbeat," she growled as I felt her body tense up for what she perceived to be an impending fight.

I shook my head slightly and bumped her with my shoulder. "Come on, chica, I'm sure that you have customers waiting next door."

Emily nodded and I ushered her out of the room in front of me, covered her back. I rejoined Anthony and our guests in time to drink my coffee while it was still hot.

A few minutes later David, Emily's boyfriend entered the bar through the side door on the other side of the fireplace. He wandered over to us and leant up against the mantelpiece. "Hey guys, still here?"

Anthony smiled. "Still plenty of games of golf to play, dude."

David snorted. "Golf? That's like spoiling a damn good walk, mate. I've got to check on some of the sites on the ancient monuments register for the Highland Council in the morning. Why don't you guys come with me?"

I raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged. "You know, roundhouses, brochs, possible Viking age burial. What do you think, sound like fun?"

Poor Anthony looked conflicted. "It sounds awesome, dude, but I've got meetings tomorrow…"

I glanced over at my brother. "When are you going to get another opportunity like this?"

He caved very easily. "Fine, I guess I'll put pleasure before business for once."

David grinned happily. "Awesome! I'll meet you here at 9.30. We can borrow Emily's Land Rover to get a ways up the glen and then we'll walk the rest of it."

Anthony shot me a concerned glance. _Dude?_

Had Emily not told her boyfriend that she'd had her car stolen yet?

_Deny everything. Smile and nod, bro._

"That's groovy, my man." Anthony replied. "How long is this little excursion?"

"Couple of hours, maybe. I'll have you back in time for lunch, as I've got to shoot over to Glenelg in the afternoon and check the brochs there for weather damage."

"Thanks for inviting us," I said.

"No worries, man—saves me bog-hopping by myself."

_Huh?_ Anthony said.

_No clue, _I replied.

"I'll catch you later," David said as he fought through the crush to get to the bar. "I'll have a pint of Red Cullin when you've got a minute, baby."

"A minute?" Emily yelled back from the other end of the bar. "You'll be waiting all night, David."

I turned back to Ian and Sara, "So, do you two want to join us on a _bog-hopping_ expedition tomorrow?"

Ian shook his head. "I'm afraid that unlike some people, we have to work. But you boys go ahead and have fun."

Anthony mock pouted. "You two have no sense of adventure."

"No," Sara laughed as she polished off the last of her caramel cheese cake. "It's just that I don't have any shoes with me that are fit for climbing mountains."

"I could always carry you," Anthony joked.

Sara blushed. "No, it's really quite okay. Like Ian said, we've got to work tomorrow."

"And with that in mind, I think we should be going," Ian said as he pulled out his wallet.

I waved him away. "Don't worry about it."

He nodded his thanks and the pair of them said their goodbyes and agreed to check in with us if they had any more information.

The crowd in the bar thinned a little as people finished their meals and before long it was mostly populated with locals and a handful of guests. I ordered a couple of single malts from a still harassed Emily and she nodded with her head towards the far end of the bar.

I followed her towards the door to the back corridor and she leant up against the counter. "Could you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"I'm worried about those arseholes in the back bar. Would you and Anthony mind popping back there and keeping an eye on things? I can't watch them and pull pints at the same time."

"And if they cause any more problems?" I asked.

"Deck 'em."

I raised an eyebrow.

Emily rolled her eyes. "Kick the shit out of them, toss them out into the street, whatever. You know what I mean, Ranger."

"No worries. Anthony and I can handle that. Oh, and by the way, David wants to borrow your Landy in the morning."

"Shit," she muttered. "Did you say anything to him?"

I shook my head. "No, I thought it was your call."

"Bugger…"

A couple of the locals who were waiting to be served started to get vocal and I squeezed Emily's shoulder. "You keep the beers flowing and Anthony and I will keep an eye on the undesirables."

"That's like everyone in here, Ranger," she said with a grin as she headed back to work.

I made my way back to Anthony and handed him his drink. "Emily wants us to hang out in the back bar. There's a few guys in there that aren't locals and she wants to make sure that they behave themselves."

He took a sip of the whisky. "Cool, so we like get to be bouncers?"

"If needed."

"I haven't been in a bar brawl for ages and never a Scottish one," he said as he stood up and all but bounded over to the side door.

"Remember we're undercover. No, ah, kicking." I meant no martial arts shit; Anthony is one of the only men in the world more lehal than I am.

"Hands-free is my fave, man."

"Undercover. Just keep thinking, undercover."

"Got it."

We went outside past the restrooms and then into the shabby back bar. It appeared to be the haunt of choice for the younger locals who were mostly clustered around the juke box and bar, all avoiding the four visitors who were playing pool.

The kids were a pretty good bunch, and Anthony happily engaged in the jukebox war between the rockers and the dance music fans by putting on some obscure German rock and a little Metallica. It was heartening to see so many different people all getting along and drinking together. Maybe it was the small village mentality, but it was rare to see people with such varied taste all chilling out in the same few square feet. I doubted that they would socialize together in a city.

The four assholes kept to themselves at the pool table, but things took a turn for the worse when they ran out of beer. Emily was still in the front bar, and they figured the best way to get her attention was to bang their empty pint glasses on the bar and yell 'Hey, bitch' very loudly.

Anthony met my gaze and then peeled off and approached them. "Hey, guys, what's up?"

The blond guy from earlier sized him up—American surfer dude with sun-bleached hair and tattoos— and stupidly dismissed him as a threat. "Fuck you, I just want another pint, so just piss off."

Emily pushed open the connecting door behind the bar open and walked in. She'd stripped down to just a black tank top with her urban print cammies, and when she crossed her arms across her chest, I realized that she must work out to get slight muscle definition like that. Black tattoos covered both arms from shoulder to wrist like sleeves and coupled with the millions of piercings, she looked pretty intimidating. She stopped behind the bar just down from the blond and raised an eyebrow.

The idiot leered at her and then slammed his pint glass down on the bar in front of her.

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you wanting something?"

"More beer, bitch."

Emily smiled sweetly. "That's Ms Bitch to you, buddy. A few manners go along way around here."

He scowled. "I want another drink."

"I'd like another drink, please," she responded. "Anthony, you wanting another?"

My brother smiled. "I'd love another ten year old Highland Park , please."

Emily picked up his glass and then looked to the blond. "See, it's not difficult, is it?"

"Hey, I was before him!"

"And he has better manners than you have," Emily replied. "I am not paid to take abuse from you, so unless you wish to remain drink free for the remainder of the evening, then I suggest that you behave. _Capische?_"

A lanky cohort stepped up behind the blond and slammed his bottle on the bar top. "Are you dissing us?"

"No, you're dissing me, mate," Emily replied as she turned away and went back into the front bar to get Anthony his drink.

The blond took a couple of steps towards my brother and smacked his hand down on the counter. "You got a fucking problem with me, mate?"

"Not at all, but you just seem to be unable to comprehend the concept of leaving your attitude at the door."

"Huh?"

"It means that you're disrespectful," I said.

Idiot boy looked back and forth between Anthony and me a couple of times. "Are you two a couple of fags or what?"

"Are you grammatically challenged?" my brother asked.

Emily came back in and set Anthony's drink down next to him. "That'll be £3.00, please, love."

"Just put it on my tab, babe."

She nodded and looked over to me. "Ranger, you okay for a drink?"

"I'll have another," I replied.

"Hey, I was talking to you, arsehole!"

I frowned at the blond moron. "Excuse me?"

"I was asking if you and the pretty boy were a couple of fags. Come on, who does who?"

Anthony actually giggled. "You could do me, baby. I like 'em a little rough around the edges."

"Anthony!" Emily chastised. "Will you stop it, please?"

"Fuckin' fag," the blond growled and took a swing at Anthony.

And then it all went to hell. Anthony floored the blond with a single punch, his mates stepped into the fray and before I could blink, bar stools were flying, glasses were being thrown and a full scale brawl had erupted. Most of the locals made a fast exit and those that remained sat back in the far corner to watch the chaos. Guess this sort of thing must pass for entertainment in Stromecarron.

Emily stormed around the bar, planted her hands on her hips and yelled at the top of her voice, "Get the hell out of my bar, you scum. You're barred—the lot of you. You hear me?"

Anthony was dragging the blond towards the exit by the arm, I'd gotten the lanky one with fucking awful body odor in a head lock, and the remaining pair turned their attention towards Emily. The dark haired one was brandishing a pool cue menacingly and the greasy guy to his right was holding an empty bottle.

She pointed towards the door. "Get out!"

The guy with the cue swung it back and before I could blink, she'd dropped him to the deck with a swift knee to the balls and an elbow to the nose. As Emily stepped back to deal with the last guy, he managed to get a lucky shot in and cracked her around the side of the head with the bottle. She swayed slightly and then got a couple of punches in before Anthony pulled him off and literally tossed him out of the door and into the parking lot.

I hauled the dark haired guy off the floor and shoved him at my brother. "Deal with this shit."

Anthony grinned. "My pleasure."

"Don't kill him."

"Aaaw..."

The noise level in the room had receded to the point where you could hear a pin drop; people looked around cautiously, as if trying to decide if the violence was finally over. It had pretty much been over before it had begun. I moved over to Emily who was leaning against the bar, her back to me and I put my hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"

She nodded and then turned around, or at least tried to.

She wobbled and I took a hold of her elbow to hold her up. "Let's try that again. Are you okay?"

Emily lifted up her head to look at me and I got a good look at the damage the bottle had done. She had a gash to her temple and a lump was already forming. I hoisted her up onto the bar top just as Anthony came back in again.

He took one look at her and went to get some ice. "Seems to be a recurring theme here, baby," he joked as he handed her the cloth wrapped bundle of ice. "Where's the first aid kit again?"

"Under the coffee machine in the front bar," she replied as she leant forward, braced her elbow on her knee and then gingerly touched the ice to her head.

Anthony disappeared and I moved in front of her. "Can you look at me, Emily?"

Emily looked up and I checked out her eyes for a blown pupil. She seemed okay, but I wasn't ruling out a concussion with a lump the size of an egg on her head. I brushed my thumb over her lower lip that was still split from the last bar fight. "Are you unusually unlucky these past couple of days or are you just an injury magnet?"

"I was fine until you turned up," she grumbled.

The door behind the bar flew open and hit the wall with a thump, and David stormed in. "What the bloody hell is going on in here?"

I took a step away from Emily and watched as my brother trailed in after the angry Scotsman, first aid box in hand.

_Think we could like disappear now, dude?_ my brother asked.

_Not yet._

Emily shrugged. "Just a few tossers causing problems, that's all."

David glared at me and I moved further away. "Shit, Em… Who do I need to kill?"

"It's all sorted, don't worry about it," she replied.

"Damn it, you need another job, woman!"

"Keep your voice down, David; I've got a banging headache," Emily whispered.

"That's it, I'm taking you home; give me your car keys," he demanded.

_Fuck… Maybe we should leave, bro? _Anthony bitched. _I sooo don't want to watch this._

_Does David remind you of anybody?_

Anthony frowned. _Like maybe he has some Italian blood?_

I sighed. _If he mentions her mother I'll have to hit him._

Anthony stepped forward and tried to save the FUBAR'd situation. "Dude, it's okay, I can take her home."

David growled, "I can take care of my own damn girlfriend! Give me your car keys, Emily."

"I lost them," she lied.

"What the fuck do you mean that you lost them?" he snapped.

She shook her head slightly. "I need to finish up here, David. Please, just go back next door and let me take care of stuff."

"Fine!" he growled as he stomped back towards the door. "Crawl home for all I fucking care."

I grabbed Anthony's arm before he added David to tonight's fallen. _That asshole. Let me..._

_No._

Emily put her head in her hands and slid sideways.

I caught her before she fell off the bar "Let's get you patched up, babe. Anthony tend bar, then we'll help you close this place up. Don't worry, chica. We'll make sure that you get home okay."

Anthony took care of the few remaining customers while I taped the gash on Emily's head. It didn't need stitches, but she certainly had a concussion. We managed to persuade everyone to leave early and I propped Emily up in a corner booth. "Tell us what needs doing, Emily."

"There's a list on the wall behind the bar. Don't mind me, I'll just have a little nap."

Anthony knelt down in front of her. "Hey, no going to sleep on us with that head injury, baby."

She scowled, but managed to keep her eyes open while we finished up.

"You want to take her home?" Anthony asked me.

I shrugged.

My brother pulled a coin out of his pocket. "We could toss for it."

I briefly thought back to the last time someone had said that to me when faced with a woman in need of some TLC, and then thought of Stephanie back in Trenton, wondered what she was doing right now. "Heads," I replied.

Anthony tossed the coin.

**tbc**


	10. Chapter 10 One Nine

**ONE**

a/n For those readers who are asking for Stephanie: please remember my stories are NOT romances, they are about Ranger and his world, his life, his work. Stephanie is always in his heart, but on the job she cannot be in the forefront of his thoughts. If he was moping over Stephanie, the distraction & lack of focus could get Ranger killed. He's too professional for that, right?

**One-Nine **

by sunny

.

_**two months ago, London:**_

**The imam surveyed his recruits** and wondered if he had made a serious miscalculation. Six months previously Sayyed al-Daglah, one of his most trusted jihadist agents, had contacted him from Britain's worst, notorious prison. A plan evolved: why sacrifice fine Muslim youths when the UK had such a massive supply of disenfranchised boys ripe for the picking?

The imam gave his blessing and the design went off without delay or interruption. In his mind the imam called them all _Mohammed_...John Mohammed (Jonno), Leonard Mohammed (Len), Derek Mohammed (Dekko) and the Irishman, Kevin O'Malley. _Perhaps by renaming them after The Prophet they will be elevated,_ he thought. Then: _Unlikely._ To the imam eye's the four were interchangeable**—**and disposable**—**vermin, dirty white rats. They were underfed, pimply, and pale. And not very bright,_ with chips on their shoulders the size of the Great Mosque in Mecca_, thought the imam. But with a combination of brainwashing, charisma, and outright lies, Sayyed the jihadist inmate managed to convert the four youths to Islam.

More specifically to the imam's own special brand of radical Islam. The imam proudly called it The One True Path of Allah.

The four British men were too stupid to learn to pray in Arabic, but they did follow the rules and the schedule of many prayers each day. Sayyed befriended them, preached the Koran and more subtly, death and destruction to the decadent capitalists who got rich and powerful while men like the "Mohammeds" went begging. It wasn't fair, their world, was it? Sayyed's way would make them rich**—**and famous.

The religion and prayers, the appearance of devotion served the four _Mohammeds_ well. Their crimes were many but petty and so they became eligible for early release on parole. The night before they were shipped off to London to begin again, Sayyed the jihadist asked a favor of the four men. He asked that they perform a special service for The One Path of Allah. He gave them a subway map of the London Underground, circled the mosque where the imam preached his deadly doctrine.

"Go to this man, he is our leader." The jihadist looked at O'Malley. "If he were a Catholic, they'd make him a saint."

O'Malley stared blankly. In the slums of Belfast where he'd grown up the son of a prostitute, the church had figured not at all in his world.

Sayyed shrugged. "You have your pure and great Islamic names now: fine Muslim names, Abdul, Hameed, Ishmael, and Karac." He looked to each thug in turn.

The Mohammeds frowned a little. They were not happy that they sounded like camel jockeys and Kev got a cool name like Crack. But they were too wary to say anything. The jihadist, oblivious, went on. "But for now you will retain your birth names. And you must not go directly to the mosque of The Path. If your parole officer asks, you must tell him you attend a local storefront mosque near the halfway house where you'll be expected to reside. You must be careful, and mindful. You are now," he dropped his voice, "covert agents of the Prophet."

He pointed to the subway stop, added street directions to a small Middle Eastern cafe in a nearby, rather marginal neighborhood. "Someone will approach you. They will offer you some time out, some food and relation. The code words are _time out_. And then your real work for the One True Path of Allah will begin."

Four pairs of dull eyes stared at him.

"Do you understand?"

"Yeah, mate. We got it," shrugged Jonno, who fancied himself the leader.

"It is the will of Allah," said the jihadist.

"The will of Allah," chorused the punks.

... ... ...

_**a day or two later, London**_

**They stood in front of the closed subway entrance** and bickered noisily. "We gotta go in the tube. Allah wills it!" yelled Dekko.

"Shhhh!" hissed Jonno.

"Eh, Dekko, mate, the Underground, ain't running. There is a strike."

"So what the fuck does that mean?"

"It means we'll have to walk," said Kev.

The foursome were not familiar with London. Passersby gave them directions of sorts and three hot miserable hours later they arrived at their destination. They found the street and the jihadist scout found them. They dredged the secret codeword from their small memory banks. At the restaurant they were escorted to a small backroom by a frightening looking man in baggy cotton long shirt and too-short pants who Jonno was sure was armed with a gun.

There were no chairs so they leaned against the dirty walls."Me fucking feet! I ain't walked so far in ever, " bitched Dekko. "My blisters got blisters."

"Shut your face, arsehole. The imam won't want to hear that shit," yelled Jonno.

"And what price are blisters, my sons, when you will soon be in Heaven with forty beautiful virgins."

The imam had appeared silently. He smiled behind his beard and pressed his hands together, bowed a little. The foursome clumsily tried to do the same.

Then he mentioned virgins! "Huh? said the four.

"Have you never heard? Sayyed did not tell you? If you follow the one true path of Allah and martyr yourself for our cause, you will be greeted after by forty young virgins, awaiting your pleasure."

They had no idea what the word _martyr_ meant. Len, the quiet one said nothing. He wasn't at sure he'd want to meet forty virgins. Virgins above the age of twelve were a rarity in the Birmingham slum where he grew up. Len thought he'd prefer one good fuck with an experienced piece of pussy instead. But he wasn't sure how to voice this preference and so he simply watched.

The imam put aside his misgivings and explained to the four British men that they were going to disappear. They'd break parole and be taken to a hidden camp in the north. There they would be trained for the one true path, for their big moment in history. He promised they'd be famous**—**all the world would someday speak their names. And they would be heroes of Islam.

"What better outcome could you ask for, my sons?" he said.

They shrugged. And they were led away, to be transported to the English training camp of what they had come to call TOTPI.

"I ain't sure I like the word Tot-pee, mates? Is that really something we want to do? asked Kevin couple hours into their initial journey.

"Dunno, Kev. Looks like we already joined." Jonno jerked his head towards the armed bearded men driving the van.

Dekko, shrugged. "If joining up with Tot-Pee gets me laid**—**forty women, mates! I say yeah. Let's do it."

They had seen the American soldiers do the ritual in the movies. They bumped fists and yelled, "Let's Do It!"

The bearded men in front rolled their eyes. These British idiots could not even get The Path's name right. They prayed their imam knew best and kept driving.

... ... ...

_**Stromecarron, present day...**_

_[Ranger]_

**Poor Emily has had another hard night.** She can't decide whether to smack us or just pass out.

"You want to take her home?" Anthony asks.

I shrug. My brother pulls out a coin. "We could toss for it."

Emily overhears, shoots him a very weak version of Steph's death glare. I force myself not to smile.

I briefly think back to the last time someone said that to me when faced with a woman in need of some TLC**—**and then thought of Stephanie back in Trenton, wondered what she was doing right now. "Heads," I reply as Anthony tosses the coin.

_Not gonna happen_, he says in my head. What the fuck. I pull my mind back and let it go tails. He grabs the coin from the air and shows his open palm. It is, of course, tails. I'm good, right?

Anthony gives me a smug grin and loops an arm under Emily's shoulders. "C'mon, sweetheart. I'm taking you home."

"Can I drive?"

"No.''

"I've never driven a Ferrari.''

"No."

"Ranger let me drive the Porsche."

_Ranger is such a soft-touch when it comes to girls. And cars._

I watch them leave, hear him murmur, "Maybe someday " as the door slams shut behind them.

Poor little Emily, she has no clue what he can do to her heart. Without even trying.

I grab my jacket, throw some bills towards Noel who has come to close out the till. And I head for my car, again following the distinctive Ferrari taillights through the narrow streets of Stromecarron.

**tbc**

* * *

><p><strong> thanks for reviewing! <strong>


	11. Chapter 11 One Ten

_**One.**_

**A/N I put my vision of Anthony up on my profile as the avatar. Check this guy out! He is perfect! Thanks to Jersey Sue for finding him and sharing!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>previously on One<strong>_**:** _Anthony gives me a smug grin and loops an arm under Emily's shoulders. "C'mon, sweetheart. I'm taking you home." I watch them leave, hear him murmur, "Maybe someday, " as the door slams shut behind them._

_I grab my jacket and head for my car, again following the distinctive Ferrari taillights through the narrow streets of Stromecarron._

* * *

><p><strong>One ~ Ten<strong>

by sunny and harmne

.

_Emily_

**What the fuck!" I opened the bathroom door** and let out a scream. A hot shower and some peace and quiet had revived me a little, though my head was still pounding painfully. Wrapped in a skimpy towel I stepped out of the bathroom and there leaning against the wall was Ranger.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I tried to hike the towel higher across my breasts and his dark eyes moved south to my now-exposed thighs. "Where is Anthony?"

"Kitchen."

Anthony had driven me home after the bar brawl. I shooed him off to make tea, assured him that if I felt sick or dizzy I'd yell. I love my historic circa 1700 shepherd's cottage but let's be honest here: It is tiny. He'd hear me if I fell or called him.

And it definitely was too small for both him and Ranger Manoso and my headache. I elbowed Ranger aside and scurried off to my room, yelling over my shoulder, "And you are here because...?"

He came and leaned on the door jamb while I searched for panties and sweats. Why the hell didn't he leave? He seemed perfectly happy to stay and chat while I dressed and dried my hair. _Nope, not going to happen, _I thought, and shut the door in his face.

Dried, dressed, and hair bundled in a sloppy ponytail I eyed my unmade bed, wondered if I should go out and be hostess-y. Or not? I did a mental shrug and fell facedown into the comfort of the bed. Sweet oblivion.

... ... ...

_Anthony_

"She's asleep," Ranger told me.

"Should we wake her up?"

"No, she can sleep for awhile."

I turned off the kettle and pulled a carton of milk out of her near-empty fridge. I waved the milk at Ranger who did his tiny head shake. He made himself tea. Plain. _Eeeew._ There were some glasses up-ended in the dish drainer. I flipped one over and began rummaging through Emily's pantry. "Shit! Fuck," I mumbled.

"What?" asked Ranger.

"No Twinkies! Not crackers, no cookies. What am I gonna have with my milk, dude?"

Ranger floated some commentary about me and Twinkies and Stephanie and her Tastykakes, but I pushed it aside. I said, "Man does not live on twigs and berries alone, you know. Need a little treat, a little sugar now and then, man. Milk requires a cookie. Fact of life."

He reached past me for a little metal box. The lid had a picture of a guy in a plaid skirt playing the bagpipes. "Looks like the cops at the St Paddy's Day parade in the city," I said dubiously.

Ranger gave the box a tiny shake and said, "Shortbread cookies, my son." He set it on the counter by my milk. "Enjoy."

I followed him into Em's tiny living room. Small sofa, couple of chairs, pine floor with a small rug. Fireplace.

Ranger said, "Cozy," and took a chair.

"Uh huh. So why are you here, Ranger? I could swear I won the coin toss."

"She has a concussion, nothing is gonna happen, you know?" Ranger made a little gesture, meant between me and Em.

"I'm not stupid, bro. I hope I have the sense not to force sex on an injured woman. Or any woman, geez."

"Right. So I figured we could take turns watching her, make sure she's okay. And we can both get a little sleep tonight too. This terrorist thing isn't going to wait, Antonio. The conference is only three more days."

"Probably they'll time it maximum effect."

"Yes. Maybe when Secretary Balter makes his speech the final day?"

"Hmmmm. Yeah, all seems calm now but it's amazing how fast the world can go from bad to total shit storm.''

"Tomorrow we'll let David show us around a little. We need recon, need a local guide."

I nodded. "So, okay. More tea?"

"No thanks."

"I'll go check on Emily, right? We'll wake her every three hours..."

... ... ...

_Emily_

**Her brain was rattling to the beat of overbearing** bass when she woke, or was that her hangover? Whichever it was, the pain was spectacular.

"Turn the bleedin' stereo down," she muttered loudly in hopes the thumping was coming from outside her head. How much had she had to drink anyway? Gravity didn't even feel right…

Then she opened her eyes and gravity was the least of her problems. She was upside down, and from her front-seat view of a leather-clad ass, she was being carried over a man's shoulder.

_Well, isn't this just friggin' ducky. I don't remember this part. Who am I supposed to be today?_

Fighting the effects of gravity on her stomach, she tried to get her eyes to focus a little better, straining to make out where she was and where the man carrying her was headed. Whoever he was, he had a nice butt, encased in brown leather that fit lovingly. He was wearing oddly primitive boots-UGGs?-and she was pretty sure the padding between her stomach and his shoulder was some sort of fur. Who wore fur anymore?

There was some sort of path and it seemed to be winding between small buildings. They didn't seem large enough to be called houses…except for the one they'd just reached. The man had to bend his knees to get through the low doorway with her, and although it was very dimly lit she could tell by the way it sounded that it was a large room, and that there were a good number of people in it.

She didn't have long to wonder about anything else. She got glimpses of a large fire pit, a group of men and women with blonde and red hair, wooden walls with swords and…other weapons hung on them. Then the man went through another doorway and another, and she was dumped unceremoniously on her butt in a pile of furs.

"Careful with the merchandise!" she spat, looking 'way up to see her captor's face. "And I don't remember agreeing to play this little game."

He was blond, too, with his hair mostly tied into skinny braids, some of which were decorated with small beads. And his face was somehow familiar.

"Anthony? What the hell?" Why would Anthony be toting her around? And wearing an animal skin around his shoulders?

The man shook his head but his mouth was twisted into a satisfied grin. He spoke, but although some of the words sounded slightly familiar she didn't understand what he said.

"Don't try that shit on me." She rolled to her knees and fought with the skirt – _skirt?_ – she seemed to be wearing, trying to get to her feet. Anthony leaned down and shoved her back into the furs, rattling off another dozen words she didn't get. "Don't piss me off, mate, not when my melon's already splitting. I'll hurt you. I don't care who the fuck you think you are."

She shoved the tangled fabric around her legs aside and tried again. When Anthony reached to push her back again she knocked his hand aside and punched him in the side of the knee. She succeeded in making him stumble; she also pissed him off.

Before she could do more than blink he was sitting astride her, capturing both her hands and tying her wrists together with a strip of leather. She fought back instantly but he was stronger and had longer arms. In only a moment she found her arms tied to a stout peg in the wooden wall behind her head.

"Shit!"

There was that unholy grin again, and now his face was close enough that she could tell he had brown eyes. That couldn't be right, could it? A brown-eyed blond?

Then he pulled a dagger out of the belt at his waist and was looking down at her with his intent plain.

"I don't think so," she muttered. She twisted and bucked, trying to dislodge him from his seat on her thighs, but all she got was a bigger grin.

He leaned forward and pushed her head down against the furs with one big palm flattened on her forehead, and then she felt the blade slide down her neck and between her breasts. With a sharp jerk her scratchy shirt was cut from neck to waist and she was bare beneath it.

"D'you think you're Conan the fucking Barbarian or something?" she yelled. She squirmed with renewed determination as the brown-eyed blonde Viking shifted his weight to his knees, the dagger sliding beneath the waistband of the skirt. She felt the skirt give away to the blade but she managed to squirm one leg free and she brought it up with every intention of driving his balls up into his brain.

But he was a split-second faster and she found herself pinned once again by his weight sitting on her thighs. And the bastard was laughing delightedly.

She screamed with frustration and fought with renewed determination as he drove the dagger into the wooden floor well out of her reach – even if she got untied – and he set about methodically removing the few scraps of cloth that remained intact. Not that there was much left. There hadn't been anything under the skirt, either.

He ignored her efforts for the most part, entertaining himself by stroking her face, her hair, and down her neck to her breasts even while she tried to bite him. Even though he was fair, his skin was still shades darker than hers and he seemed to like the contrast.

"Okay, now, you've had your fun. Let me up." Her efforts to free herself were ignored, as were her words. She was winded from fighting and her head was still pounding, although it seemed to be almost background noise now. Her main focus was getting Anthony – or whoever the hell he was – off of her.

The Anthony-Viking was playing with her breasts, rubbing his thumb back and forth across her nipple to make it peak. The first pinch caught her by surprise and she made a startled noise. So he did it again.

Actually, it felt kind of good – but it was the principle of the thing, you know? So she renewed her efforts to knock him from his perch. She managed to get one leg loose and drew her knee back to kick him. But again he moved faster, and he threw himself full-length on her, sliding his legs between hers.

_He had that move planned, I swear_, she thought to herself. Now he had her even more at his mercy, and since her hands were tied he was free to let his roam. And they did. He found and traced her tattoos, seemed bewildered by her eyebrow piercing, but was fascinated by the jeweled silver ring in her belly-button. She gasped when his fingers found her and he smiled, rubbing through her damp folds to find and rub the little nub. Then one rough finger probed.

Her struggles were weakening. She was getting tired…and what he was doing felt pretty damn good. Besides, as trussed up in leather as he was, she was still safe for a while.

Evidently it occurred to him about the same time that he had on too many clothes for the continuation of what he had in mind. He withdrew his hand and stood up, reaching for the ties that held the fur around his shoulders.

The fur was discarded, as was the shirt beneath it. The view of his naked chest would have been pleasant under other circumstances. His pants were laced up and they took a little longer; when they were loose enough to peel down to his knees he sat his bare ass on the furs next to her hip while he untied and removed his boots and pulled the pants the rest of the way off.

The battle of wills didn't last much longer. She tried to cross her legs, he pried them apart. Since he held her ankles, she tried twisting over onto her belly. He just used her legs to force her back over. She tried arching her back and holding herself out of reach. He shifted his grip to the back of her knees and forced her legs up against her chest. And, well, there's no way to protect yourself in that position.

He used his weight to hold her down as he found her opening, and then he was pushing in, grunting in satisfaction as he worked himself deeper.

"God dammit, I can't fucking breathe," she gasped. Surprisingly, he either understood what she said or guessed by her breathless rasp, because he eased some of his weight off. She could breathe – but he could also move more freely.

She twisted and strained, but really there was no way to win this situation. So she stopped fighting. He had to sleep sometime, right? She'd kill him then.

As if he sensed victory, he let go of her legs and let his hands roam, rubbing and squeezing and occasionally gripping. He was too tall to reach her breasts with his mouth, but he licked and bit at her neck.

She was trying really hard to ignore the man using her body…but damn if he wasn't pretty good at what he was doing. He was built just right and managed to hit her sweet spot with every long, hard thrust. Before she could stop herself she was rising to meet him, moving her body against his.

He liked it. She could tell.

Then she felt the familiar tightening low in her belly, and her hands clenched into fists. Even though she fought it, her orgasm rose and broke over her, making her cry out…

... ... ...

_Ranger_

**Her scream jerked us both from uncomfortable sleep**, me on the sofa, Anthony on the wooden floor with a throw pillow and knitted shawl thing.

"Whatthefuck?"

Guns drawn we ran into Emily's bedroom, flipped on the light. She was tossing and turning but asleep or unconscious. Her cheeks were flushed pink and she was moaning a little.

I stopped dead, Anthony plowed into me. I hissed, "What?"

"Dunno, man. She's like...making me into a barbarian or some shit."

?

He didn't answer, moved around me to the bed. Cautiously touched Emily's shoulder."Em, sweetheart. It's just a bad dream, baby. Wake up." He rambled on a bit in Spanish, which I was pretty sure Emily did not understand. Then he shook her shoulder again.

Emily's body froze and her eyes jerked open. She looked from him to me then back at Anthony. Clutched the covers to her chest. And screamed again.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Maybe<strong>_**...the night isn't over yet? tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>thank you for reading &amp; reviewing! If we get lots and lots of nice reviews I'll put up Chapter 11 on Wednesday.<strong>

**sunny & harmne**


	12. Chapter 12 One Eleven

**One**

* * *

><p><em><strong>previously:<strong>_ _Guns drawn we ran into Emily's bedroom, flipped on the light. Anthony cautiously touched Emily's shoulder."Em, sweetheart. It's just a bad dream, baby. Wake up." He rambled on a bit in Spanish, which I was pretty sure Emily did not understand. Then he shook her shoulder again._

_Emily's body froze and her eyes jerked open. She looked from him to me then back at Anthony. Clutched the covers to her chest. And screamed again._

* * *

><p>chapter by sunny dream sequence by Harmne with a little sunny! enjoy!

**One ~ Eleven**

**.**

_[Anthony]_

**Emily woke herself up with the** screaming. She sat up wide-eyed, still clutching the sheet to her chest like we were the barbarian horde come to rape her. But she knew her name and the date and the name of the US President.

"This is Scotland. You're supposed to ask me who the PM is."

Ranger said, ''And?"

"And...oh, never mind! Can I fucking go back to sleep now?"

"Sure."

Ranger stalked out but I lingered. "How's your head, sweetheart? Need another Advil?"

Em glared at me but then nodded, collapsed back on her pillows.

I said, "I'll be right back."

... ... ...

_[Emily and the guys]_

She was floating again. Her head hurt, too, but not quite as much as before.

For a few moments she just lay still, wondering if she was going to find herself in the Viking's ...um... lair? again when she opened her eyes. Or would it be something different and possibly worse? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

The air was warm and fresh and she was lying on her back on something soft and smooth. After taking another deep breath for courage she opened her eyes just a crack and looked around with caution.

_Hmm._Embossed wallpaper in off-white and pale tan, heavy cream curtains... She was in a very large four-posted bed on sheets the color of sand. And she was starkers—again! That was about enough of that! She moved to sit up...

_I leave the pills and water by Emily's bedside. Back in the living room I lie down again on Em's cold hard floor. I doze off immediately, I can sleep anywhere. I stretch luxuriously, enjoying the soft smooth sheets and gentle motion of the waterbed in my Castle suite._

_Waterbed? asks Ranger in my head._

_What? I like waterbeds._

_Loser._

...and the bed moved gently beneath her, throwing off her balance. Flailing slightly, she managed to sit up and looked around for the sheet or something to wear. There was a small scrap of silver hanging from one of the posts at the foot of the bed, but her attention was distracted. She could now see out of the window and the view wasn't altogether unfamiliar. There were the rolling green hills of the Highlands...and the Castle, and the loch. She must be in one of the fancy hotel rooms in the conference center.

That just made things more confusing. Was this another weird dream or had she done something really stupid?

As if the thought of him conjured him, she heard a door open and Anthony walked into the room wearing a towel around his waist. He was still damp from the shower and rubbing his short, spiky hair with another towel. He was very muscular, his chest furred with golden hair. He had a huge eagle tattoo that stretched from nipple to nipple. It had a banner in its claws that said _Semper Fi._

Anthony seemed to waver a bit. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, watched him approach the bed. He was very beautiful...not as Hulk-ish as she thought at first. His chest was smooth and hard, with golden skin and an eight-pack to die for. The tattoo under his right ear curled away down his back but she noticed the blue- and red-inked flower, a tropical flower, around his navel and a diamond stud in his bellybutton. She reached out a hand to explore...

_What the fuck are you doing now? asks Ranger._

_I'm fixing, I respond absently because I have to concetrate to share Em's shifting and random mind._

_Her dream? _

_Hey, if she's having sex dreams about me I want her to have the right me in mind. In her last dream she had me wearing fur and tight brown leather pants, and, like UGGs. And now she's giving me a hairy chest and a gross disgusting Marines tatt._

_I send him a mental picture of the hairy eagle tattoo._

_Huh. Worked for Morelli, I guess._

_Who? What?_

_Out loud Ranger says, "Antonio, we all need to get some sleep. Get the hell out of her head, shut it off and go to sleep."_

_"Yes, boss," I answer. Add, __Loser._

_I heard that, thinks Ranger._

She snatched her hand back as if burned. _Oh, this can't be happening to me again!_ she thought. The sheet was MIA and she couldn't decide if there was a way to sit that would hide any of her 'assets'. She gave up with a sigh and just waited.

"Hey, sweetheart," Anthony said softly with a smile. He walked around the end of the bed and sat down on the padded side rail. As he did, the towel he was wearing parted all the way up to the knot securing it, exposing his thigh and most of his hip. More tattoos. And some lethal looking scars, still pink and new. "How's your head? Need another Advil?"

Oh, yeah. He smelled really good... and he wasn't hard to look at, either. Up close his skin was as warm and golden as a ripe peach. She fought the urge to taste him, bite him, see how sweet his flesh really was...

_Yes! Go for it, baby._

_Oh man._

_Ranger rolls over on the couch. As if turning his back would shut out these dreams?_

_Hah._

She determinedly ignored her nipples tightening at his proximity and tried to take another deep breath.

"My head's pounding and I could really use a drink of water," she ventured. Anthony moved as if to get up and she quickly added, "And could I maybe borrow a shirt? I'm a bit chilled."

Anthony's eyes dropped unerringly to her nipples and his lips curved up just a bit. But when he stood up he found the missing sheet off the foot of the bed and flipped it up over her before heading back the direction he'd come from. Relieved, she dragged the fine cotton up to her neck and fell back onto her pillow, closing her eyes.

Before she could come up with answers or even any good questions, Anthony was back. In one hand he carried a tall glass filled with water and crushed ice. The other was cupped and held two small pills.

"Take these, baby, and you should start feeling much better," he said as he dumped the pills into her hand. He waited while she swallowed the pills and drank as much water as she wanted, then he took the glass and put it on the side table.

She watched him with growing bafflement. This felt almost normal but there was still something off. She looked around again. The room was large and beautifully furnished, and now that she looked she noticed there was an arch on the far wall that looked like it led into a sitting room. A suite? Still...

"I didn't arrive here naked, did I?" she asked. There were no clothes strewn about, no shoes beside the bed, and she was certainly lacking in clothing at the moment.

Anthony looked a little surprised by the question. "Your dress is right there," he said, pointing to the silver scrap on the bed post. "You lost one shoe in the fountain. I think you may have lost the other one in the elevator. I was trying to carry you and find my key card at the same time, though, so I'm not sure."

Wonderful. She'd made a spectacle of herself right across the loch from where she had to live and work. Just fucking ducky. She thought about asking about her knickers but decided she didn't want to know.

She didn't realize she was frowning until Anthony's finger stroked her forehead, smoothing out her worry lines.

"No frowning. It'll make your head hurt worse. Here, scoot over." He tugged off his towel and slid under the sheet before she could even blink. Warm skin brushed against hers and his weight caused the waterbed to undulate gently as he moved close and gathered her into his arms.

For a moment she was still with surprise. Then his warmth seeped into her and she found herself relaxing into his embrace. After a few moments his hand moved to her face again and he resumed the gentle stroking of her forehead. It felt good-perhaps it was her imagination but the soothing strokes seemed to be quieting the pounding in her brain.

"Mmm...is this your headache cure?" she asked.

"Could be," he said softly and she could almost hear his smile. "It works for stress and hangovers, too."

"Um." She didn't bother to try to answer more coherently. His fingers had extended their range and were stroking the rest of her face, tracing gently over her nose, across her cheeks and around her mouth. When he stroked across her lip her tongue darted out to taste him. She felt him stir against her hip and her lips twitched.

"Ah. So, maybe you're interested in the deluxe headache cure...?" he breathed just above her head as his fingers traced her ear and down the line of her jaw.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Just relax, and tell me when you're headache's gone and you want me to stop," he instructed.

She didn't answer, just relaxed further. She felt him shift slightly, propping his head up on one elbow. His fingers continued their tracing, down her neck and back and forth across her collarbone over the sheet. He wasn't touching her skin and was barely touching the sheet, but her skin was tingling...

... ... ... ...

_[still Emily]_

**I woke up the next morning feeling surprisingly fresh and cheerful.**My headache was gone and while I brushed my teeth, I examined my flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes in some surprise. I had that nagging feeling there was something—a dream?—that lingered just outside the reach of my memory.

I suddenly remembered my beloved Landy was stolen.

_No, that's not it..._

The cottage was empty, the only sign of my unwanted guests an exceptionally pristine kitchen. I put the kettle on and decided the OCD member of the duo was probably Ranger. I took my tea into my bedroom and dressed for work. And when I came out, there in my living room was Anthony Stewart, seated on my small sofa, Blackberry in one hand, cell phone in the other.

I screamed.

He looked up calmly. And I vaguely registered again how hot he is. He had obviously showered and shaved, was dressed in combats, anorak and nice hiking boots. Probably armed and dangerous too.

"What are you doing here? I am going to work! I feel fine."

He nodded a little, a strange glint in his eye. "We figured. I'm your ride, babe."

"So you came back for me?"

"I had to go to The Castle this morning. If I'm going bog-hopping today, whatever the fuck that is, I had to get some work done first."

It was not even 8 AM. I started to make a sarcastic comment then paused, wondering about the energy and dedication it takes to successfully perform two demanding and diverse jobs.

"Is that like: Don't quit your day job?" I asked curiously.

''Sort of." He looked a little _something_ for a second—tired? too worn for a twenty-something guy? Sad? Then the blank face came down. "Ready?"

He opened the passenger door of his Ferrari for me and when I opened my mouth to demand to drive, he held up a hand and said, "Don't start, Emily. Get in."

Geez.

**tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>thank you for reviewing!<strong>


	13. Chapter 13 One Twelve

**One **

_**.**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Previously on ONE:<strong>_ He opened the passenger door of his Ferrari for me and when I opened my mouth to demand to drive, he held up a hand and said, "Don't start, Emily. Get in."

* * *

><p><strong>One ~ Twelve<strong>

**.**

story by **sunny**, dream sequences by **Harmne**

**.**

_Emily_

**We drove the couple miles to the Stromecarron Hotel** in sullen silence. Our moods were matched well by the weather which had gone from misty drizzle to a more continuous light rain. We made the turn into the hotel lot, narrowly swerving out of the erratic path of the town's most eccentric senior citizen—an ancient ex-pat Australian of Scottish extraction, Mr. Elmer MacNab—who was trundling along on his red mobility scooter completely hidden under an enormous red and white golf umbrella.

Anthony grinned, beeped the horn and waved that weird surfer _hang loose_ gesture, waggling his thumb and pinky at Mr. MacNab. A liver spotted hand at the end of a green slicker shot out from under the umbrella and flipped us the bird.

Anthony said, "Geez."

"He probably didn't even see you."

"Uh huh."

"He's just a harmless old geezer."

"Yeah, I know. Elmer. We played golf with him and his bud Gerald yesterday. Old. Really old."

"Oh," I nodded. MacNab and Sir Gerald Feinstein are a fixture at Stromecarron Golf course. Then, "Oh!" Because there in the muddy gravel lot was Ranger Manoso, leaning on his black Porsche which was parked next to one of those ridiculously tiny SmartCars...bright red. Like Mr. MacNab's scooter and not a whole lot bigger. It was so small it made the Porsche look hulking and scary and big.

Anthony pulled in beside the Porsche and before he opened his door he reached behind the Ferrari's seats, for—not the umbrella I expected—but a semi-automatic assault rifle.

He said, "Ya never know what may turn up on a boghopping expedition, baby."

I sniped, "Will it work if it gets wet?"

He patted the weapon affectionately and smiled at me. "Ah, the Heckler and Koch G-36. Quite deadly in the right hands. And yes, ma'am, it is waterproof."

"So why's it wearing a rubber? Active sex life? That slut!" The barrel of the weapon was—yes!—covered with what appeared to be a cheap flesh-colored condom.

"I'm a trained marksman, Em. Even a bit of dirt or dust or rain can throw off a weapon's accuracy."

"Yeah, right. And that's definitely a fine tuned instrument." Not. Even I knew the G-36 was designed to throw as many rounds into as many victims in the fastest possible elapsed time. Think _spray-gun._

"It has its uses," Anthony said in a fake tough-guy voice.

I rolled my eyes and he grinned.

We got out and Ranger met us in front of the tiny red toy SmartCar, dangling a set of keys on one long finger. He seemed impervious to the rain, greeted me with his almost smile. "Your ride, babe."

"What!" I looked around frantically. My Landy? I did a full 360 and saw only the little red toy. No white Landy. "What the fuck? You playing tricks on me, mate?"

"Powers, your car was stolen. A complication, I admit...but complications arise, ensue...and with the appropriate monetary inducement, are easily overcome." He dropped the keys in my hand and waved at the tiny red toy car.

I handed the keys right back. "That is NOT a Landy."

"No..."

"It'll be a miracle if it gets up over the hills here."

"I'm sure it will. Just cut down on the beers and haggis, babe, so you don't exceed the weight limit."

I aimed a kick at his shin but he was fast.

"Look, Ranger. I can't afford it. Or the petrol. I heard they take premium gasoline!"

He looked as perplexed as a blank-faced man can. "It's a rental, Powers. From LMK Motors, down the loch here...Leased with an option to buy. And it gets fifty miles to a gallon."

"I can't fucking afford it!"

"It's a gift, Emily. Use it as long as you need it. What's the problem?"

L"It's, it's too...cute. And red. And probably expensive? Surely the guys at LMK had something else?" I said desperately. I shoved the key remote back into his hand

Tyres crunched on gravel. And old beat-up Jeep Wagoneer drove slowly into the lot. Ranger made a small hand gesture. "The only other choice was a decrepit Jeep that smelled like sheep shit..."

David got out of said sheep shit Jeep and approached. "...And David needed it for boghopping."

David came up and sheepishly [!] said _good morning_. The Americans gave him tiny nods. I sputtered for a few seconds then I yelled at David: "You got the Jeep? What the fuck? What about the man who always swore he'd rather _push his Landy than drive a Jeep._ You hypocrite!" I grabbed the SmartKeys out of Ranger's hand and stomped off to the office.

David looked at Ranger and Anthony. "Maybe it's _that time_? She's can be really bitchy..."

"TMI, dude," said Anthony.

... ... ... ...

_Ranger_

**I watch Powers flounce off into the Inn.** She's cute with her red curls and attitude. I remember last night and grin.

David and Anthony say, "What?" but then Anthony grins too. David looks annoyed, so Anthony gets him going about local dig sites while I mull over Emily's reaction to the SmartCar. I don't blame her for not wanting to be seen in it—but to refuse a free loaner? Stephanie would have been in the car and long gone, smile and wave, you know. The poor little car would be dust by noon probably.

"So does that seem like a plan, Mr. Manoso?"

"Ranger. People call me _Ranger._"

"Ranger. Plan?"

Behind him Anthony nods so I nod too.

"Pile in then. First stop a _broch_ in the hills to the north above the loch."

"Uh huh."

"I hope you're ready for a good long hike..."

Anthony, riding shotgun says, "Man, we're soldiers, dude. We can hike the shit outta civilians. _No problemo_."

David cuts his eyes to me in the rearview mirror. "Soldiers? I thought you were...well...from the Economic Conference?"

"Don't ask, dude, please."

I roll my eyes and try not to breathe through my nose.

... ... ...

Emily

**I slammed the Hotel's back door **and plowed right into my boss Nigel. Perfect. Fucking perfect.

"You're late, Emily."

"I was here til 2 AM, you cretin! I have a concussion!" I wasn't wearing a watch but I was pretty sure I wasn't late either. Nigel was looking for a fight.

He said, "That's no excuse. I need a bookkeeper who's reliable.''

I gasped with fury. My headache returned with a vengeance.

"And as for the bar, I left you in charge two nights! And guess what, both nights there were huge bar brawls. All kinds of damage, my girl. If I can't trust you to keep order in the bar then I'll have to find someone else."

I sputtered. Tending the bar was favor to him! It was NOT my job. "I did my best, Nigel. If you don't like it...fuck you." I went into my tiny office and closed the door very softly. My head was about to explode and the room twirled around me. I sniffed back a few _poor-me_ tears and sighed. Booted up my computer. The room rotated again, my stomach a few steps behind.

I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on my keyboard.

_Just for a minute,_ I promised myself...and in that suspended state of almost sleep last night's dream replayed in my throbbing head.

He was soothing her headache pain...

The gently-tracing finger got as far as the upper swells of her breasts, then went back to her forehead and started over. She was relaxed, floating on the warm, soft surface of the waterbed, lulled by the gentle touch. So she didn't pay too much attention as her face was once again traced and the finger slowly moved down.

This time when it reached the upper hem of the sheet, the finger slipped beneath and continued its path of exploration. When he traced over her nipple it finally registered—but she was too mesmerized to protest. It felt good...

The lazy hand kept moving, stroking, rolling, and gently pinching at her nipples until she moaned softly, moving restlessly. The hand responded and moved down further, circling her navel...and finally reaching that little hidden nub.

Her legs fell open, wordlessly inviting the hand to continue, and it did. One roughened fingertip toyed with the nub until it was swollen and sensitive, and then slid down to finger the wetness below.

Soft whimpers were escaping from her throat now as her hips moved against the stroking hand. They were joined by a low groan as a single finger pushed deep.

A second finger joined the first and she cried out as they probed and retreated, searching for and finding the sweet spot that had her arching her back in response.

"Yeah..." The softly spoken word was barely heard, but she felt the warm hard body slide over hers. Her thighs were nudged further apart as he positioned himself, and the stroking fingers were replaced by something...more.

No longer quiescent, her arms went around him, her hands clutching at his smooth, strong back. He held himself slightly apart from her, leaving space so that one hand could venture between them to thumb and tug at her nipples again.

Suddenly he dropped to brace on his forearms and his thrusts grew longer and more forceful. Then he gave a hoarse shout and her orgasm swamped her, rolling her under like a tidal wave...that burst into flames like an autumn bonfire. And consumed them both.

A door banged somewhere in the Inn and voices raised in the hall. I jerked awake.

I knew who stole my Landy.

**tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reviewing!<strong>


	14. Chapter 14 One  Thirteen

—

**In honor of Veterans' Day. **Dedicated with respectful thanks to all our veterans and serving military personnel. And especially in memory of my dad [sunny] who was an AF combat pilot. We are very proud of his service and we miss him.

**One**

* * *

><p><strong>an The broch info and other archeological info is from Wikipedia or Scottish websites. Some is pasted directly from their text; no infringement is intended...**

* * *

><p><strong>One - Thirteen<strong>

**.**

_**previously:** Tires crunched on gravel. An old beat-up Jeep Wagoneer drove slowly into the lot. Ranger made a small hand gesture. "The only other choice was a decrepit Jeep that smelled like sheep shit..." __David the local archaeologist got out of said sheep shit Jeep and approached. "...And David needed it for boghopping."_

_._

_[David Jameson , local archaeologist and historian POV]_

_._

**"A ****broch**** is an ****Iron Age ****drystone**** hollow-walled** structure of a type found only in Scotland."

"Uh huh," mumbled the blond man called Anthony Stewart. "Go on..."

"Brochs include some of the most sophisticated examples of drystone architecture ever created, and belong to the classification _complex __Atlantic Roundhouse_. Their origin is a matter of some controversy. One theory is that they were defensive military structures—but that's not accepted by many modern archaeologists anymore. But the alternative notion that they were farmhouses is dismissed by some others."

"Maybe they were both?" suggested Stewart.

"It's possible. Most brochs stand alone in the landscape, but some examples exist of brochs surrounded by clusters of smaller dwellings, indicating the rudiments of a village-type development."

I listened to myself droning on as we tramped up the rise to the third broch on the morning's itinerary. The man Stewart listened to me with every appearance of interest and concentration but his companion, who I was told to address as _Ranger_, walked silently a few yards behind us, his intense dark eyes searching the surrounding hills and valleys.

Both men carried rifles in traditional leather and canvas cases, despite the fact that I told them we'd not be in areas used for hunting. And that their weapons were too powerful for use on the pheasants and grouse of this area. I'm no sportsman but even I know you don't bird hunt with an assault rifle.

I added, "And deer hunting season doesn't start til late December."

Ranger said, "You never know."

Now I was talking about the roundhouses' conjectured appearance. "Brochs were almost certainly originally roofed..."

"And these inside spaces, these cells?" asked Anthony.

"Not known. Maybe storage? Or human sleeping areas during cold winters?"

"Huh. Cozy."

Ranger came up to us and stood hands on hips, made a slow circle surveying the sea before us and rising ground behind. "Are the brochs always so close to the ocean?"

"Sea, we call it the sea."

"And?"

"Yes. Or very rarely a river. The sea was the source of these people's food, their livelihood. And commerce."

Anthony said, "When was this again?"

"Scotland's Iron Age was from about 500 BC to 500 AD," I replied.

"So it outlasted the Roman conquest of Britain?

"They never got up this far."

Ranger said, "I can imagine."

Anthony though seemed interested still. "What language did they speak?"

"They were Celts, maybe Picts...they spoke a Celtic language, a primitive Gaelic. Comparable, perhaps, in style and complexity to Olde English. There is no written textual matter remaining."

Anthony didn't answer. He wandered back into the circular area of the broch's base. Stood looking at the floor, then the walls. His head cocked, as if he was listening to something.

"Do you hear that, man?" he said.

Ranger turned sharply from his examination of the sea and shoreline. An ugly black handgun appeared instantly in his hand. "Antonio? What...?"

Anthony stood straight but somehow bonelessly there in the broch, his hands loose at his sides. His eyes tracked something and when I looked over at Ranger I saw his eyes lwere focused too. I turned, saw nothing. My skin crawled a little. I shivered.

The ancient space was absolutely soundless, yet Stewart gave the impression of seeing and hearing _something_ within these old stones walls. Hestood frozen, transfixed, a very faint frown line between his brows.

Ranger said something in Spanish, his voice soft but stern. A command.

Stewart ignored him entirely, just swivelled slightly, as if who—or what—he saw was moving around us.

Ranger strode into the broch, grabbed Stewart's bicep and jerked him out of the stone circle of the broch's space. He shook his friend a little, got in his face. Yelled, "Hey!"

"What!" Anthony shook Ranger off, shoved him back gently. Ranger stepped further away and the gun disappeared.

"What did...?" I started to ask.

Anthony made a strange gesture with his hands as if he was outlining a shape, or a form. Forms.

"Nothing," snapped Ranger. "There's nothing here to see."

"But...," said both Anthony and I.

"Look, David, is there anything here on higher ground, more up in the hills?"

"Well there are stone circles...like little Stonehenges?"

"And?"

I said, "Well, stone circles were probably places of worships in some way...and there are many stone cairns that were mausoleums. They date back to prehistoric times, Bronze Age. Even Stone Age.''

"Mausoleums?"

"Yes. Not much left there now of course."

"Just ghosts," said Anthony.

"I don't believe in ghosts," I laughed.

The young American turned his dark eyes on me. He was so pale under his tan that he had a faint bluish tinge around his nose and mouth. His face looked sweaty, his eyes haunted.

"No. Of course not," he agreed.

Ranger said, "No mausoleums. No graves."

...

**For the rest if the morning I avoided the ancient burial sites,** wondering what had happened up there at the broch. I drove the old smelly Jeep out into the hills, displaying ancient hut sites, old sheilings and bothies, even a few caves.

I had researched Anthony Stewart on-line. He was a very wealthy man—and perhaps quite brilliant, though it seemed unlikely despite his quick grasp of my subject. I didn't care. My role here today was that of a fundraiser. If the young American could be persuaded to donate even a few thousand dollars it would mean so much. A shot of American cash seemed, to me at least, a must-have item. I was willing to go the extra mile or two it took—I'd show them my dig sites and tell them the history. And if Emily was interested in him or the dark and silent Ranger Manoso, well, I'd live with that. They'd not be staying all that long. _Let him enjoy Emily's—hospitality, if he must,_ I thought. The funding, that was the goal. The prize.

We headed back to Stromecarron for some lunch. And ran smack into Stromecarron's Remembrance Day Parade.

... ... ...

_[Ranger]_

**I don't exactly know what Antonio saw at that broch**. And I was not gonna ask, no fucking way.

He, well...sometimes he _sees_ things—things that "once were"...

Not me. I block that shit out.

In my head, Anthony said_, You heard them. They were singing. Celebrating. Their laird's woman gave birth to a boychild...He was to be named, Rufus? Ruidh?_

_I heard nothing. And saw no freaking terrorists either, _I answered.

_Head, sand. Ostrich city, hermano._

I shut him out, tried to analyse what I'd seen. Of the terrain, not my brother's freakin' archeological sites were too open, too tourist trap to be of interest to a hiding terrorist cell, especially one with a truckload of missiles. Not mention you'd think for sure someone would notice, in a tiny town of 800 people—if a mad Arab bomber or two drove through town, stopped for a pint at Emily's bar.

_Then they probably aren't Arabs, dude._

_Good point. _

We mulled that over. Then: _Ah...so you could understand them? At __the__ broch?_ I asked.

_You could too._

_...I. No._

_?_

_.. ... ..._

_[Anthony]_

**I love a parade! So cool. **All 800 inhabitants of Stromecarron were out lining the street, waving to the war vets. I scrambled the date through my head and realized it was November 11th, our Veterans' Day, a day Ranger and I usually spend at Arlington, paying a bit of respect to friends we've...lost.

David smacked the Jeep's steering wheel and muttered a mild curse. He told us, "It's Remembrance Day. You know, Armistice Day—the town turns out to remember the men who served in the wars. They start at the Town Hall at 11 AM with a moment of silence, the laird makes a speech...then the vets parade back to the local cemetery to plant flags on the graves."

I said, "I know. The groundsman at the golf course told me it would be closed today. I guess the cemetery is right in the middle, we saw it yesterday."

"The parade won't last long. Sorry for the delay." David still hadn't screwed up the nerve to ask me outright for money for his project. I was ambivalent...it was a good cause and I was interested but David seemed too ready to toss everything aside just to get a few bucks. He needs to chill, have a bake sale or something fun.

Ranger cast a dark glance at David who was still strumming on the wheel of the Jeep. Ranger said, "We'll get out."

"But..."

We walked to the edge of the narrow road, people moved aside to let us join them. We watched the mayor drive by, followed by bagpipes and drums, a small flag detachment. A fire engine. Then some ancient men who were probably WW2 vets—they all had to be about ninety, so the parade was very slow.

We watched in respectful silence.

An older man in a kilt stood next to Ranger, glanced towards us. First kilt we'd seen, so I was guessing this was maybe the referred-to laird. He was stocky and balding but had an air of command. He looked at both of us a few times; we were standing casually but at parade rest, honoring the soldiers—and our own comrades far away and long ago.

The man said to Ranger, "You're visiting?"

Mini nod from Ranger.

"And this? Your fathers perhaps served?"

Ranger and I exchanged glances. Are covert agents considered veterans? Maybe so, in the context of modern warfare. Ranger shrugged. "Not exactly, sir."

Ranger was somehow exuding his Colonel Manoso vibe, his face taut and focused. The man said, "Ah. Perhaps yourselves?"

"...Yes."

"What regiment, young man?"

Reeeeally long hesitation from Ranger, he needs to practice. I totally expected him to tell this distinguished man that he did Not Need to Know, but finally he said, "I'm not at liberty to say, sir." _Mr. Charming. Geez._

The man smiled though and said, "Of course not. Black Ops, I imagine."

I said politely, "And you, sir?"

"Oh I served in the Falkland's, not a famous war, of course..."

"But crucial—its place in military history is long overdue. As is recognition for the Spec Ops soldiers who fought there."

Mackenzie looked surprised by my knowledge of his war. He said, "Well you know that old saying: _May you live in interesting times. _And I must say my military service was never boring!"

I asked, "You were SAS, sir?" Britain's SAS is somewhat equivalent to the US's Delta Force.

"Yes I was, young man. I flew in and rappelled down the ropes with the best of them. But it was a long time ago." He extended a hand to each of us, "I'm Arthur MacKenzie. I hope you enjoy your stay."

We said thank you but were distracted by the sight of our pal Elmer who was bringing up the rear of the parade, on his red scooter, huge Australian flag in his hand. We waved and this time got a wave back, no rude gestures.

MacKenzie smiled. "I see you've met our resident eccentric."

"Golf, sir. The great leveler."

"I hope you didn't wager too many dollars?"

"Not at all," I shrugged.

He handed us his card. "Let me know if I can be of service." And he strode off after Elmer, taking his position at the end of the parade.

Ranger and I exchanged looks.

"Hmmmm."

"Yeah."

... ... ...

_[Ranger]_

**I watched MacKenzie head off after Elmer.** I supposed his position as laird was honorary, but he had an air of command.

Anthony met my eyes, same thought on his face. But our attention was pulled away to a helicopter that passed by heading northeast. It was non-military, white with red markings. David, who had parked and joined us said, "Medivac. Comes from Inverness. We have a small medical center here but serious cases get airlifted out."

"Good to know," I said, mind again in planning mode. Now that we'd seen the area on the ground, tomorrow we would do another recon. This time from the air.

"Your heli still parked at The Castle, bro?"

"Ready and waiting for orders, boss," answered Anthony with a hint of sarcasm.

I nodded. I'd round up Ian Reynolds and his partner Sarah, my Scotland Yard contacts, for extra eyes on the ground.

We'd see a lot more, a lot faster. With no weird vibes.

* * *

><p><strong>tbc<strong>


	15. Chapter 15  One Fourteen, One Fifteen

**ONE**

_**.**_

_**Previously**:__Our attention was pulled away to a helicopter that passed by heading northeast. It was non-military, white with red markings. David, who had parked and joined us said, "Medivac. Comes from Inverness. We have a small medical center here but serious cases get airlifted out."_

_"Good to know," I said, mind again in planning mode. Now that we'd seen the area on the ground, tomorrow we would do another recon. This time from the air._

* * *

><p><strong>One ~ Fourteen<strong>

by sunny

.

_[Ranger]_

**David Jameson dropped us off in the hotel parking lot.** We watched him wallow off in the smelly old Jeep.

"Bit of a whore, that guy," I said casually.

Anthony nodded. "I think he'd sell me his mom for a few dollars. And definitely poor Em is available to the highest bidder," answered Anthony.

_Creep._

_Asshole._

"Will you give him money?" We started towards the door.

"Would you?"

"Maybe."

"I told him to contact my man in charge of non-profit contributions," agreed Anthony. "It's a really cool thing, the history, so..."

"Yeah...I'm gonna shower and change. I'll meet you back at the Castle in an hour or so," I said.

"I have the closed-door session, high profile monetary meeting today, Ranger. I really have to attend." Anthony had gone all serious on me—one minute floating off in historic la-la land like at the broch, next minute he's back in Mr. Money mode.

"Okay..."

"But I want to go in for a sec," he held the back door for me, followed me into the bar. "I want to see how Emily is feeling."

Nigel looked up from his cigarette and newspaper. He said, "You blokes missed all the excitement. Didn't you hear?"

"What?''

''I was trying to get rid of those nasty pricks from London, the blokes you guys mixed it up with last night? And Emily came out to see what the commotion was, I guess." He waved a careless hand at her open office door. "And the silly woman just keeled right over at our feet. Passed out cold. Had to be airlifted to the hospital in Inverness. You must have seen the chopper."

"What! What happened to her?"

"Dunno. EMTs came when I called, she never came to...so they called for the evac helicopter.

"Did you call the hospital?"

"Who went with her?"

Nigel shrugged, turned back to his paper. "I figure when she wakes up she'll call. I need the payroll by Thursday."

Anthony made a twitch, like he was gonna lunge for Nigel's throat and throttle the man. I grabbed him and pulled him away, out into the hallway.

"I can't believe that jerk!" Anthony was sputtering."Poor Em... We have to go check on her!"

"You have that conference, bro. Go do it. I'll drive to Inverness and make sure she's taken care of." I kept my voice low and calm. Calmer than I felt.

"I..."

"I'll call you as soon as I see her, okay? You make sure the chopper is ready to go tomorrow, that's all you need to do."

A moment's silence as Anthony considered his conflicting obligations. Finally a tiny nod, then he disappeared, heading out to his car in the lot.

I went back in to Nigel. "The assholes from London? Did they hurt her?"

"No. She just poked her head out and...boom."

"Where are the Brits now?"

"No clue, Manoso. They faded away when things went sideways. Glad to see the back of them, you know? And I was busy, what with the lunch crowd coming soon and the medics and all."

"You're a real hero, aren't you Nigel." I stomped off before _I _throttled the man, went to shower and change.

... ... ...

_[Anthony]_

**I spewed gravel from the Ferrari's big Pirelli tires** and tore out of the lot, like the demons from hell were chasing me. Taking out my anger on the car instead of the people in Em's life who were treating her like used Kleenex, toss away, who cares? _Man, that so sucks._

I slowed down driving past the church and the school, punched on the bluetooth phone and asked for local information. I drove to the Castle, trying to get some word on Emily's condition, but was treated to the usual bullshit _No info to non-family members_, only here it was delivered in a frostily polite Scottish accent. I disconnected, cursing, on eye on the time, one eye on the mountain road.

The Castle was bustling with the day's luncheon for the Economic Conference attendees plus the hovering presence of their security and the press. I kept an wary eye out for the fashion dudes, avoiding them successfully only to run into the head of conference security, the asshole Major Blake. He was in the hallway, lurking near my suite. I tried to brush by but he accosted me. "We need to talk, Major Stewart."

"Not now, I'm busy." My PA Dani appeared and followed me into the my suite, taking notes on my barrage of orders: fuel up the heli (done, boss); get out my black suit (done, boss); make sure our equipment and supplies were loaded into the heli (done, boss); call Reynolds and Sara, our cop friends, tell them to meet me and Ranger here tomorrow at 0700 hours..."Is it daylight by then?" I added.

"I'll find out," she said calmly.

I turned and almost bumped into Major Blake who had followed us into the room. "What the fuck! Get lost, major. I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, I have meeting." I started to undress.

"Look, can't you take five minutes?" He turned and went to the mini fridge."Maybe we can have a drink and talk? It's important."

I sighed. "You can any have brew you want as long as it's a Corona. And you talk fast. Real fast." I had my staff put Corona and limes in all my hotel fridges; I can drink the local stuff if I must, but when you want a beer, you want a Corona, right?

Dani said, "I ordered you a turkey club. Room service will be here in three minutes. You have to eat."

"Yes, mom.'' I waved her out of the suite and turned to Blake. "What's your problem, man? You can see I'm busy here, right?"

"I tried to contact your brother..."

I stared at him. He shouldn't know Ranger and I are brothers.

"What? You two look exactly alike, Stewart. More than just US Spec Ops droids, you have to be related somehow."

I upped my stare to glare.

"Not important. But your brother doesn't like me at all..." His face went a little red, angry? Or embarrassed.

"My brother likes you a little, man. Otherwise you'd be dead after that thing in Iraq."

"Well, usually he doesn't like anybody. He's an intimidating man. Deep black ops and all—Manoso is so black he doesn't exist. You know that, don't you?''

_Well, yeah. Because I made it that way._

I went back to my silent stare. After an uncomfortable moment while Blake squirmed, I said, "Yeah, he's a complicated guy."

The SAS major handed me a Corona and popped open his own. Mumbled, "Why do you Americans drink this piss anyway?" He sat down in the chair by the table, said, "Look this is beyond all that. Our connection at MI6 says there is chatter on the airwaves that there is a terrorist attack being planned here."

"No shit." _Sherlock. _Like most of the free world, the Brits subscribe to the US's NSA analysis briefings. Which means they only get the intell we want them to have.

I said, "And?"

"And it seems definite that the target will be the US Secretary of the Treasury. He gives the keynote speech at tomorrow night's closing dinner."

"Uh huh." This was new detail, we'd been out of touch all morning. A mistake, maybe.

"Do you or Ranger have anything to add to the threat intell, Stewart?"

"Who me?''

I was just thankful someone had given these guys a head up. Our op was top-secret but having them on alert and on our side couldn't hurt. The major might be an idiot but his SAS guys were no doubt topnotch.

I heard a knock at the door, "Room service." Went over and held the door open for the major to make his exit. I said, "I'll keep it in mind, dude."

''But...''

"Gotta go, dude. Unless you want to shower with me, hit the road."

"Keep me in the loop."

_Oh, sure._

"No problem."

I scrawled a name on the lunch tab and closed the door on everyone.

While Ranger and I had been bog-hopping the intell had been updated. We were running behind here.

We had maybe 36 hours.

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p><strong><strong>One ~ Fifteen<strong>**

by sunny and harmne

**.**

_**previously :** The imam surveyed his recruits and wondered if he had made a serious miscalculation. To the imam eye's the four were interchangeableand disposable-vermin, dirty white rats. They were underfed, pimply, and pale. And not very bright, with chips on their shoulders the size of Mecca, thought the imam. But with a combination of brainwashing, charisma, and outright lies, Sayyed the jihadist inmate, the imam's trusted servant, managed to convert the four youths to Islam._

_..._

_A door banged somewhere in the Inn and voices raised in the hall. Emily jerked awake. She knew who stole her Landy._

* * *

><p><em>[Ranger]<em>

**The outside of Raigmore Hospital** looked like any office complex in any business park in Jersey but the ER looked and smelled just like Trenton's St. Francis on a busy weekday afternoon. The Porsche's GPS unit had led me back to Inverness, no word forthcoming on Emily Powers' condition. Now I made my way through the uncrowded yet chaotic waiting room, past a couple guys who looked like brawlers, a kid puking, a pregnant woman pacing. Families, friends, cops. The usual. Felt strange to be here without Tank at my back and Stephanie in tow.

At the admissions window I said, "Emily Powers? Airlifted in from Stromecarron?"

The woman at the desk typed busily without even looking up at me. She read from her screen, "Powers, Emily Amanda...admitted at 11.23 am...Oh, here we are, she is in intensive care. Only family permitted, are you family?" The receptionist finally looked up at me, got big eyed. Her mouth dropped open and she blushed bright red. "Oh! Um! Er...are you family?"

"Yes." I'm a mixed race American but this woman never saw Emily, she'd have no idea that Em is a fair-skinned Scottish redhead and probably not my sister. The woman got a grip and hands shaking, geez, drew me a little map.

Four minutes later I walked into Emily's ICU bay. I stood for a moment, reading her chart-which told me nada, then I sat down by her pale still form. She was deeply unconscious, maybe in a coma. Because I was unsure I didn't attempt to reach out into her mind. Instead I picked up her hand, said softly, "What happened, Powers? Talk to me."

... ... ...

_earlier that morning..._

_[Emily]_

**I jerked awake at the sound of loud voices** in the hall by the bar. Okay, I dozed off over my computer spreadsheets! So what the fuck? Nigel's going to fire my lazy ass? My head was splitting but I had remembered the dreams from the night before. No wonder Anthony gave me a strange look this morning! I felt my face heating again, remembering. Then I thought, _Yeah, but how the hell would he know what I dreamt?_

A thump against the wall outside my room, then more voices. Still foggy and disoriented I listened to the crude tones of working class London. There was another thud, then I heard, "We are performing the work of Allah! Imam Abdul says we are soldiers!"

A different voice, equally strident, "Righto! Bloody soldiers, mate, fucking mercenaries even!"

A third voice, "We are NOT mercenaries! We are fucking terrorists!"

An idiotic chorus of _Hurrahs._

"Yeah, fuckin' bloody terrorists! Watch out, world," crowed voice number one who I was thinking was that blond creep from last night's bar brawl. The others were no doubt his unwashed asshole mates.

More bumps, some laughter. "You need two things to live in this business, your balls and your word. _You _don't have either! You know the difference between you and me, Dekko? I still got both."

More shoves, "My fucking ass, you do! And I got balls, Jonno! I hotwired that Landy right out in the lot, din't I? Broad bloody daylight, too. My balls is just fine!"

My Landy! These asswipes stole my Landy? My beloved Land Rover, gone but not forgotten. This guy would pay!

I got out of my chair, wobbled a bit, shoved the door open. I heard Nigel say, "What are you people doing here!" Finally arriving to toss the London scum back out.

I took a step out into the fray and...nothing.

... ... ...

_[Anthony]_

**I stood in front of the mirror tying** my favorite Hermes necktie and listened to Dani's briefing.

Dani runs my real life and she's very good at it. A little bossy but good. Officially she knows nothing about my government work—what Steph calls my night job—but of course Dani did stuff like ordering the weapon and ammo cases loaded into the heli, so probably she has some clue.

"Okay, boss. Item twelve: Your decorator called and said there is a delay in the delivery of your new couch."

"Uh huh."

"She says they can either change the fabric, give you—she says silk?" Dani's voice rose a trifle, her British West Indies accent clipping sharply,"...instead of leather...?"

"What couch?"

"Your office."

"I don't want leather in my office, Danielle. What if I wanna, like, take a nap? Leather is so—slippery."

"You never take a nap. You're hyperactive."

"But still."

"So, you do want silk?"

"No I don't want silk. Either choose something comfy yourself or if you just can't do that, like it's not your job, call my mom and ask her."

"Your mum?"

"Yeah."

Dani made a note. Turned the page. "Next. On the local front there is, speaking of fronts, a cold front headed our way here in Scotland. There is a freak storm coming from the North Sea, British Weather Administration's storm watch center says to expect high winds and possibly snow before the end of the week."

_Oh great, we get to chase terrorists with a helicopter in the frickin' snow._

"I'm surprised it snows here in mid-November," I mumbled uselessly.

"They say freak storm, unusual weather pattern..."

"Bummer."

"Shall I cancel your golf reservations?"

"No way! I came for golf, not snowboarding." I opened my laptop and logged into a high security weather site. "What, you never saw that Honda ad, about snow golfing, Danielle? Awesome."

Dani stared at me, I could feel it. I glanced up but her eyes were focused on my MacBook Pro which is personalized with various surf shop decals and a bumper sticker. This keeps persons unknown or unwanted from lifting my computer; it's too embarrassing even for lowlife spy types. I said, "What now?"

She read,** "**_Save the planet._ Whenever I've read that bumper sticker I've had to laugh."

"Why?"

She said. "Save the planet. What for? And from what? From ourselves?"

I shrugged, went back to researching my flight plan for tomorrow. I said, "Life's simple: kill or be killed, don't get involved, get the money up front in cash, and always finish the job. Fast." Lessons learned young, along with Ranger, at our daddies' knees.

"Speaking of jobs, boss, you're five minutes late to the closed door econ session already."

"Shit."

... ... ...

_[Emily]_

**From the painful black void,** a scene slowly appeared.

She was alone in the dark, but she could see herself, illuminated by a soft light that didn't seem to have a source...it was just there.

Then she wasn't alone. Anthony stepped in from the shadows.

He was wearing worn cargo jeans and a surf-shop t-shirt with a tropical print shirt open over it. His hair was growing out, silvery blond and silky.

"Hey," he said, reaching for her. Warm hands cupped her shoulders and ran down her arms, hesitating for a moment when he felt the sheath of her throwing knife strapped to her forearm, then gently circling her wrists. Tugging lightly, he drew her arms away from her sides and looked her up and down, a teasing smile on his face.

"Are you wearing them?"

She looked down at herself, oddly curious. But she saw only her regular clothes—boots, camo cargo pants, long sleeved black t-shirt with a manga character's face, complete with blue hair.

"There's no fun in it for me if I just tell you, now is there?" she answered.

His smile turned into a grin. "Oh, I'm all for both of us having fun!" Fingers brushed against her belly and her cargos slid down her legs. She stepped out of them and found her boots had disappeared. It seemed odd, but she was distracted by Anthony's hands tugging the shirt up and over her head.

He inhaled sharply and she opened her eyes to see him staring down at her. She didn't think her sports bra merited such a look...

She looked down at herself with surprise.

Definitely not her usual sports bra. She was wearing a gossamer-thin camisole of lace the color of sea mist. It was cut low and clung to her breasts lovingly, the outline of her nipples and her nipple rings clearly defined. Most of her tattoos were exposed and those that were covered seemed to be showing through. The bottom of the camisole ended just below her ribs in lovely, lacey scallops. Her skimpy little boy-shorts panties matched, the scalloped lace framing the top of her legs.

"You look hot, babe," he whispered, bending to kiss the head of the dragon tattoo that curled from her back over her shoulder. The tattoo was large, intrcate and beautiful...and...not hers. The room shivered a lttle.

"You're beautiful. Who knew that under those god-awful clothes you were so amazing? So perfect..."

"Hardly perfect," she whispered back. "But thank you."

"It also comes in black," he said, turning her and pulling her back against his chest. Now she was standing in front of a large oval cheval mirror that hadn't been there a moment before. Anthony swept her hair to one side and bent his head, gently nipping the back of her neck.

He raised his head and met her eyes in the mirror. Ranger. He was Ranger. The same beautiful face, same intense black Spanish eyes. Different scent, long dark hair, loose like black silk.

Shaken, she dropped her eyes and found herself seeing his dark-skinned hand sliding across her pale belly, fingers brushing the low waistband of the panties.

The panties - and camisole - were now fine black lace, and just as delicate. She was surprised enough to exclaim "Hey! I liked the silvery-green..."

"I like black," he teased, "but whatever you want, babe..."

He turned her in his arms to face him and the lace was back to sea-mist.

"Whatever you want..." he repeated as he bent his head. "I want to discover all your secrets." She felt herself being lifted off her feet and laid out gently on satin sheets—black satin, that framed her paleness in startling contrast. Their clothes magically disappeared—a hard male body slid smoothly over her now nude body. He was..._Anthony_—she felt his short hair as he kissed her. But it was Ranger's voice whispering, "...talk to me."

... ... ...

_[still Emily]_

**Again I found myself waking up dazed and confused**. And somehow pleasantly, er, satisfied? I took in my surroundings: the white acoustic tile ceiling and beeping monitors; the smell of starched linens and antiseptic and Bulgari shower gel. I turned my head and there was Ranger.

I could feel the flush start at my eyebrows and roll all the way down to the neck of the ugly hospital gown I wore. He smiled. My latest dream loomed between us, though again I wondered how _he_ knew. His smile went wider and I shut my eyes, _if I can't see him maybe he isn't here._

Even with my eyes closed I could tell when the nurse squelched into the room. Cool hand on my wrist, counting under her breath with smelled of peppermint and fags. Then the woman said, ''Oh my, she has wonderful color, doesn't she! The doctor will be so pleased.''

''Uh huh.''

I opened my eyes a fraction, watched the nurse write on my chart. She patted Ranger on shoulder—_she_ _must have a latent death wish,_ I grinned to myself. The woman said kindly, ''Your visit must be doing her a world of good. Maybe she'll wake up soon."

_Or not._ A wave of dizziness swept over me. I shut my eyes tightly again, willed myself elsewhere.

The nurse squeaked out, closed the door with a soft snick.

Ranger said, ''Yeah. Maybe you'll wake up soon, Powers? Or are your dreams just too much damn fun?''

My eyes popped open.

''Wwwwwhat? How did? ...Oh just fuck off! Go away!"

''No gonna happened, sweetheart. Tell me what you know. And do it fast, before the doctor gets here."

"Well, my Landy...

tbc

* * *

><p>an A Twofer tonight! I hope you enjoy it. Pls don't send me angry or tearful PMs about Emily's dream. Ranger is NOT to be held responsible for what women dream about him. Right?

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

love

sunny


	16. Chapter 16 One Sixteen

_**One ~ Seventeen**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

_[Emily]_

**I said, "I know who stole** my Landy!"

And the fucking doctor wandered in. He was reading some paperwork and mumbling into his cell phone. Ranger and I glared at him but he carried on, oblivious, shambling up to the hospital bed. The guy was maybe 14 years old.

Ranger looked like he might laugh.

"Uh huh. Uh huh. Er, er, well, Ms Powers, you had a, a, hmmmm, ...scan. Inconclusive. So we did an MRI..."

"I know!" I snapped. Like I'd fail to notice having an MRI?

" And pending results of, we'll plan to keep you here at least a few more days."

"What! No!"

The man ignored me and walked out. I subsided back on my pillows and closed my eyes, cursing silently. When I opened them again, Ranger was still sitting there.

"Get me out of here," I hissed.

''No.''

''We have a mission, Manoso. I have my orders!''

''No.''

''I don't work for you, you fucker!''

''No? Then who the fuck _do _you work for, Dervla? Or should I say Pippa?''

"You don't need to know!''

''That's my line, babe. And, oh, yeah—does the name Winter ring a bell?"

"No! I mean...Just get me my clothes and take me home!''

"No. You have a concussion, you'd be a hindrance."

I sat up, fury washing over me. "I'll _hindrance_ you, you arsehole!"

The grin materialized full on. "That's not what you were thinking a little while ago, Em. Sweet dreams, baby?"

The interrupted dream sequence came back to me full force. I studied him closely. He was dressed to blend in jeans and black sweater, black leather jacket, but Ranger Manoso was very beautiful, even in the icky greenish hospital glare. Under my stare his intense dark eyes slowly changed from laughter to quizzical. He said, "What?"

I shrugged. "Do you have any tattoos?" The man in my dream had tribal tattoos and a bellybutton stud.

"...No."

"Oh."

We sat in silence for a few beats while I thought about his unmarred, perfect body.

"So walk me through the Landy theft info, Powers."

"If you promise to get me out of here."

"I'll talk to the doctor," he said, implying a longsuffering sigh.

I snorted. "That child? He's too young to shave, he's probably just some kid in a doctor costume!"

"Counterfeit medical person? That's new one, Em. Good try."

"My clothes?"

"Your car? Oh and any intell you'd want to add?"

"Okay, remember those idiots with the acne and the low class London accents? Prison tatt knuckles?"

... ... ...

.

_[Anthony]_

**Four interminable hours later the Econ Summit thing** adjourned for cocktail hour and dinner. I hauled ass out of the room, ignoring anyone who tried to catch my eye or stop to chat.

Dani trotted at my side running though her usual list of who the fuck knows what.

"So if you are in agreement, boss, I'll type up your thoughts—well, mine, 'cos you were sleeping, right?—and pass it to the chairman ASAP. FYI, they want to raise international interest rates, that can't be good!"

"Huh. What'd we learn besides the prime lending rate shit?'' I asked absently.

She stopped dead. I turned to look at her. Dani is West Indian, dark and pretty with pale green cat eyes. She blurted, "I don't know, sir."

"See that's the problem here. I don't fuckin' know either. This whole scene is just, like, mindless jabber."

"But, boss..."

"Look, Danielle, report back to me when it makes sense. Because I have a blizzard coming and recon to accomplish before that happens. I just don't have the time. Or give a crap."

Her eyes got big. "But sir..."

I keyed open my hotel suite and said, "Look, I'll sort out the world's finances later. Find Ranger and tell him to get his ass back here. Now!"

I opened the door. "Oh nevermind," I added.

Ranger and Emily were seated on the sofa, Ranger busy on my laptop. Guess the surf shop stickers don't bother him. I shut the door on Dani, poor kid, and slouched down next to Em.

"What's up, guys? How you feelin', Em?"

She looked pale but pretty. She said, "I'm fine! Quit harping on my head!"

_Oh okaaay._

She narrowed her eyes at me. Said, "Do you have tattoos?"

"What? Yeah, sure." I held out my arm so she could see the blue tribal tatt around my right wrist. She grabbed my hand and pushed the platinum Rolex up my forearm so she could see the ink. "Is that all?"

"Well, uh, no..."

I started to stand up to pull off my suit coat and shirt—the woman likes art, I have plenty to share—but Ranger snapped out, "Forget the tattoos. What the hell is wrong with you, Powers? Brief him on the terrorists."

I slumped back down. "Terrorists?"

She nodded then winced. "Those blokes you and Ranger got into the brawl with last night? They were back at the Inn this morning...?" She turned to Ranger. "Was it just this morning?"

"Yeah."

"And I overheard them bragging and trash talking about how they hotwired my Landy!"

"Ooops."

"But now we think they stole it because they need a launch pad for the stolen missile."

Ranger said, "I checked them out. They got religion in prison, it seems. Made friends with a suspected Islamist recruiter name of Sayyed al-Daglah. And they worked in the metal shop while they were guests of the British penal system. Learned a trade."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Welding. They trained as welders."

"So, what they are gonna weld the launch system onto the Land Rover?" I was incredulous. "How would that work?"

"They'll have to rip the roof off, rip out the seats, strip it down to bare metal."

Powers shrieked, "No! My Landy! Oh no, not happening! I'll kill the arseholes."

Ranger ignored her. "The good news is that the white Land Rover will be nicely visible from the air. We'll head out at daylight tomorrow."

I said, "Well, we could but the weather bureau is predicting a snowstorm. And high winds."

Ranger turned his head, examined the growing darkness in the big floor to ceiling windows of the suite. "We'll have to hope we can beat the storm. But we should get better transport, the Porsche and the Ferrari will be useless in snow."

I nodded. "The heli should be fueled and ready to move out at dawn. I had Dani locate a couple of SUVs, she had to go out of Scotland. I sent some of my people down to—I forget? York? Birmingham? to pick them up. Got a Range Rover for you and a Jeep Commander for me, a smaller Jeep for Em, 'cos that little red ladybug car won't be worth shit in the snow."

"She has a concussion. She's not supposed to drive," said Ranger.

"Ya never know," I answered.

"No Porsche?"

"Need off road ability, man. The Range Rover HSE LUX Supercharged comes standard with: 5.0-liter Supercharged V8, 510-horsepower; and 461 lb-ft torque with _positive torque-RPM matching downshifts _manual shift, and so on. You'll like it."

"Is it black?"

"Yes, it's freakin' black! I don't think you wanna try frozen boghopping in the snow in a Cayenne. That's just—silly."

"Silly?"

Ranger looked pissed.

"Deal with it," I shrugged.

Knock on the door and Dani sailed in carrying a garment bag. She gave Ranger a quick smile and bestowed a cold nod on Em who ignored her. I said, "What's up?"

"The paperwork for your opinion on the conference's resolutions is being typed up now and will be on your laptop in ten minutes. If it is acceptable I will have a hard copy ready for you to sign immediately."

"...'kay..."

"The SUVs are on premises, boss. Here are the remotes." Slap of black plastic key fobs on the coffee table. "There are gassed up—well, they take diesel, please don't forget and put petrol in them, snow chains in the cargo holds. The heli is cleared for recon at 0700, which is first daylight. It's late but I can't make the sun rise early, not even for you. Storm is scheduled to hit at about 2 PM."

"Thanks."

"And the weapons are loaded and stowed in the heli as per usual, extra ammo in the cases."

Emily finally took notice. She frowned and said, "Who the fuck do you work for, missy?"

Dani sniffed. "Not you, lady." She turned to me and held up the garment bag, "And last, this is your costume."

"What?"

"Your costume. Tonight's conference gala is a fancy dress ball, a freakin' costume party. I brought this for you to wear."

She unzipped the cover and whipped it off.

"Pirates of the Caribbean?" I asked.

"Sure. I just _love_ Jonny Depp."

**tbc**

**reviews are treasured! And make us smile. Please review? Thanks for reading!**

**sunny**


	17. Chapter 17 One Seventeen

**One**

**.**

.

**_previously on One:_** "And this is your costume. Tonight's conference gala is a fancy dress ball, a freakin' costume party. I brought this for you to wear." She unzipped the cover and whipped it off.

"Pirates of the Caribbean?" I asked.

* * *

><p><em><strong>One ~ Seventeen<strong>_

_by sunny and Adalind_

_**.**_

_[Anthony]_

**"You're not dressed!''**

**''I certainly am,''** I said calmly.

Dani just about stamped her FMPed little foot.

I added, "You're not dressed either."

As my PA Dani was invited to attend the gala evening in a support capacity. She was dressed in a lovely plain little black dress that cost big bucks. I know because I signed the expense account chit for it.

Knock on the door. Dani threw up her hands and stormed over to the entrance of my suite, yanked open the door. I reached for my gun and hissed, ''Are you crazy?"

Dani cast me a fulminating glare—don't you just love _fulminating_?—and Emily Powers breezed into the room. In a —something. Something porn style, laced up tight, boobs pushed up to her chin. Big skirt. I gasped with laughter and both women turned on me, hands on hips. _If looks could kill, baby..._

Em said, "You're not dressed."

"I _am_ dressed. This is a perfectly good tuxedo, Brioni, as I recall." I peeked inside at the label but all it had was my name, well, the name I use. Like for sleep away camp. I frowned.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" asked Emily.

I grinned, "Bond. James Bond."

"Ooooooh!" from both women, united in their annoyance with little ol' me.

I added, "If you think I'm going to a business dinner dressed up as Captain Jack you have to think again, ladies. I'd never be taken seriously again. I have a bank to run, billions to juggle, economies to save. Okay? NO Captain Jack. Period."

Dani walked out. Em just stared, then flung herself down on the sofa. "Bond, eh? Hmmm." She touched her tongue to her full upper lip."I like it."

"Good."

"But maybe you could be Jack Sparrow...later?"

"No."

"Well, fuck."

"Take it or leave it, missy. And by the way, who or should I say _what_ might you be dressed up as?"

"I m the Keira Knightly chick, the girl, what's her name. In the movies?"

"Uh huh." I examined her dress's bodice. And cleavage."Interesting."

"It's a disaster, isn't it?"

"Not exactly, babe. It's, ah—interesting. Can you like, breathe?"

She sighed. "Oh, let's just go."

"You wanna wear the Captain Jack outfit? It's probably one size fits all."

"Yeah?"

I waved at the garment bag. " Go get em, tiger."

... ... ...

[_Ranger]_

**Ranger in his usual black, no costume,** watches Anthony and Emily and Dani from the shadows. The potted palms are wrapped with fairy lights and hide him nicely. He sees Monetary Anthony in serious evening wear, discussing the devaluation of the yen in fluent Japanese, Dani at his side, attentive, no doubt making mental notes that will appear tomorrow in a policy letter with every nuance delineated clearly. _Dani is a gem_, he thinks. And then Ranger grins when he spots Emily, happily swaggering around in the Captain Jack outfit.

He almost misses the hand, a hand as stealthy as his own, that grabs her arms and pulls her into the shadows. A man hisses, ''Why are you not wearing the wench dress, Powers?"

''Danny! You like to scared the crap out of me!"

Ranger listens, unnoticed, invisible. "Look, Powers, I got a plan," whispers the man, who Ranger now recognizes as MI6 renegade agent and famed loose cannon, Christian Winter, code name..street name?...Frost. Winter continues, "...but I think I'm going to need your help. Or at least your cooperation."

Emily says, "Okay, okay. I'll do it."

Winters scoffs. "I haven't even told you what it is yet."

"I know. But I can guess, Winter, you're about as subtle as a steamroller. You want me to put the Keira Knightly dress back on and seduce Mr. Stewart. Right?"

"Exactly."

"Can I ask why?''

''This is a godgiven chance to infiltrate the closed deep black ops sector run by Manoso. Stewart is your key to the goodies, the intell, the info...he is our link.''

''Well...''

"This is an order, Powers."

"But lives are at stake!"

"As I said, we don't give a shit. Not our problem. Are we clear?"

"Yeah. Clear. But Colonel Winter, your moral compass is so fucked up, I'll be shocked if you manage to find your way back to the parking lot."

"Just find your way back into the bloody dress and into that man's bed. And head." Winter pointed at Anthony across the ballroom. "Let me worry about my morals...and the parking lot.''

Emily sighed. ''You got it.''

Ranger moves away, texts his brother on his sat phone. Anthony reads the text while Ranger watches. He smiles . And gives hidden Ranger a tiny nod.

... ... ...

_[Emily]_

**Bond, James Bond and Captain Jack Sparrow** who is now dressed again as an eighteenth century courtesan** made their way** back to the suite. Dani was long gone, picked up some cute foreign boy. And Ranger was nowhere to be seen.

_Banking is fucking incredibly boring,_ I thought, stifled a yawn.

I leaned close to 'Bond', well, Anthony, in the elevator, his arm in its impeccable tailoring warm against the side of my breast. I hoped he'd kiss me, but no. He grabbed my elbow and gently steered me down the corridor, into his room. I looked around again. "I bet this room costs a couple thousand a night!" I said.

He looked clueless."So?"

"Lots of money wasted on a bed."

Anthony pulled off his bowtie and leaned in close. He smelled wonderful, expensive. He said, ''My bed never goes to waste, Em."

''Uh..." Spooked I turned away. "Anything in the mini bar?''

He waved a hand, ''There's a kitchen, babe. Help yourself.''

Of course there was a kitchen . Mini bars are just so, so—tasteless, right?

I looked. Four bottles of expensive champagne. Peanut butter and jelly, white bread. Cheese and crackers, some fruit. Chocolates. Huh. Anthony leaned over me to look too. He pointed. ''Get the _Veuve Clicquot rose'_, Em. It's a nice pink champagne, you'll like it.''

''I tend bar, mate. I know what it is.'' I was being bitchy, on edge from Winter's unexpected visit. I grabbed the green bottle, deftly twisted it open and poured for us both. I handed Anthony his glass and said, "Cheers."

Anthony obligingly clinked glasses but watched me in dark-eyed silence. I guess my bitchiness turned him off. We sat. The silence grew and I refused to chatter just to fill it.

Finally, "So tell me, Em. What's your story? Really?''

''What d'you mean?''

''You have a lot of layers, my sweet. When we met in New York last winter you were ostensibly "with" David, his partner in his repro antiquities venture he runs on the side. You made it sound like you were life partners, had kids even. Yet here you are, seductively dressed as a wench, alone in my hotel room at..." He looked at his megabucks Rolex. "...midnight. What gives?''

''I do work with David, he has his hands full, runs his commercial business as well as serving as the county archaeological expert."

"Yeah? And those kiddies? No sign of kids at your cottage, Em."

"David's divorced. He has three kids and of course they come visit him, school holidays and so on."

"So on?"

"And I help him out. Or I did. I m not thrilled about him offering me up to the highest bidder, anything for a buck for his digs!"

"Yeah. Not pretty."

"Pisses me off!" I sulked.

''You're angry. But not at me...right?" He set down our glasses, ran his fingers gently up my arm, then across my décolletage, fingers just brushing the overly prominent bulge of my breasts. He said softly, "This doesn't look comfy, Em." He grasped the bow between my baseball breasts and yanked, undoing the constricting corset top. Lucky for me the garment didn't just fall open and drop my tits in his lap. They just nestled sweetly in the open V, in a froth of lace. "Pretty." He bent his head, ran his tongue across the curves, his hand following, fingering the soft silk of the dress. His fingers stilled on my nipple. "What have we here?'

I moaned a little.

"Show me, Em."

I hesitated.

His fingers moved. He said again, "Do it, Emily. Show me. Now."

I drew the corset open further and reclined back on the sofa pillows offering him my breasts. His hands opened the bodice wider, slipped it off my shoulders. He paused, his eyes enjoying the simple jeweled bars in my nipples. His blond head dipped down, his hot mouth took one in, then the other, his teeth biting down carefully, then harder. He moved back up over me so he could kiss my mouth and throat, his fingers gently but definitely twisting the little metal studs. Desire washed over me. One hand left my breasts and fluffed up the full yellow skirt, his hand finding my leg, travelling up my thigh. "Is there more for me to find, baby? Show me, show me more."

I gasped out, "You have to find out for yourself." Then, "...yes! Yes, there. Right there."

He caught my scream of pleasure in his mouth, with his kiss. But he didn't stop.

At some point he tossed me on the huge bed. And like in my dreams our clothes disappeared. It was different from the dreams—but the same. Though he did not morph into Ranger, thank god.

... ... ...

**Later he lay face down, one arm thrown across me,** his breathing moving towards sleep. I sat up and began tracing the beautiful Maori tattoos on his lower back and top of his ass, the pattern twined around his butt dimples, the un-inked skin smooth and golden and just faintly peach fuzzed. His body was amazing. But, "What happened?"

He had long red slash scars, each edged by tiny dots of hundreds of sutures.

He sighed. "Mmmm."

I rubbed his back gently, asked again, "Hmm? You were injured." Then, "Hey! Did I wear you out, boy?"

He yawned. "Long day, Powers." And he sounded just like Ranger. My gut froze. I sat up, grabbed my wench dress and slid it on. He went to sleep. Men. Typical. I flounced out, my diva exit unnoticed.

**tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>review, review review...we write, you review, okay? Thanks!<strong>

**love**

**sunny**


	18. Chapter 18 One eighteen

**One**

**.**

**previously on One:** _Emily sat up, grabbed her pirate wench dress. He went to sleep. Men. Typical. She flounced out, her diva exit unnoticed._

_._

* * *

><p><em><strong>One ~ Eighteen<strong>_

_**.**_

_**by Harmne, Adalind, and sunny**_

_**.**_

_[Emily]_

**She moved as silently as she knew how,** naked, clutching the stupid Keira Knightly corset dress to her chest. The man in the bed slept on, silent, exhausted.

She closed the bedroom door behind herself, entered the bathroom-dressing room area of the suite. Took a minute to regroup. The bathroom door was ajar and the honed limestone multi-jet shower beckoned.

_Just a fast rinse_, she told herself, turning on the luxury of limitless hot water. She washed quickly, half hoping not to wake Anthony and half hoping he'd decide to join her. She lathered efficiently, the scent of the designer soap filling her head. _sniff sniff_..._uh? bubblegum?_ His soap smelled like bubblegum despite the fact that he himself always smelled of some expensive French men's scent. The bubblegum smell made her smile and she wondered sleepily if the soap was provided by the hotel? Or was a gift from a child, or a strange whimsical twist of the man himself. She'd probably never know but laughed a little, envisioning herself passing on the intell to Winter: _Anthony Stewart washes with bubblegum soap, boss._

Emily wrapped herself in a fluffy white bath sheet and went to look for the jeans and sneakers she'd worn here earlier in the day. Nothing. One of the tidying fairies in Anthony's absurd entourage had no doubt sent them to the laundry. Her choices were the wench gown or the pirate costume, which made her fume. She opened the suite's big closet to see if she could instead pilfer some decent clothes from Anthony. She contemplated his belongings, a confused look crossing her face. On the left were dark-toned traditional business suits, no doubt hand tailored and costly. Custom made shirts in pretty colors. Silk ties. In the middle were classic golf clothes, tailored dark pants, pastel shirts, windbreaker.

On the left were, well, rags, really. Ratty knee-holed jeans, though the labels shrieked money—and rattier cargoes; some long-sleeved (crummy) t-shirts, a couple fleeces, plus three luscious cashmere quarter zip sweaters. Old sneakers below, a random pile of t-shirts above. She rummaged on the shelf, pulled on a pair of his Ralph Lauren boxers, continued her search. No weapons, none at all...just a small stack of hardcover books. She pulled them down, read the titles. Suspense, all new. A Lee Child. A US version of the new Vince Flynn, _Mitch Rapp_ thriller. Em grinned—Rapp is just so, so _Ranger._ It hadn't been released in the UK yet and she considered taking it with her. _How much time could he have for reading anyway?_ But the sight of a candy bar wrapper bookmark, 3/4 of the way through made her return it to the shelf. The third book was an unfamiliar writer WEB Griffin. The fly leaf said the hero was a rich guy, ex-Green Beret, Carlos Castillo. She smiled, that was probably his, Anthony's, own alter ego. Neither he nor Ranger seemed like Reacher types, too young, too rich, too suave, too tightly wound.

She put all three books away, regretfully, and chose a once black t-shirt and a pair of combats. When she pulled on the pants she noted military stenciling on the ass. Squinted to read: JOSF-ATTF/ Delta. Below that it said: NATO. Anthony's arse wasn't that big and the words sort of bled off at the sides. Seemed to be authentic, though, not a fashion thing. A tiny crumb to offer Winter? She memorized the letters which she decided stood for _something, something_ Task Force. And "Delta"? as in Delta Force?

_No one ever said the guys were NOT the real deal, _she decided,_ just because they looked too pretty._ She added a baby blue cashmere cloud of a jumper—sweater—and disgusted, stomped back into the pirate boots, her only footwear unless she wanted to wear wench slippers with army combats.

In the darkened living room she homed in on the crystal bowl on the coffee table where Dani had left the key remotes for the new SUVs. Only four remained: Jeep. Jeep. Jeep, Jeep. (sigh.) Ranger had made an executive decision to get first dibs on the Range Rover XL. _I'd rather push my Landy than drive a Jeep,_ Em ranted to herself, but settled on taking the fanciest sets of keys figuring they would fit the big-bucks Commander, her idea of the best choice of two bad options.

One last look around, still no weapons to be had...and she slipped out of the room.

... ... ...

_[Anthony] _

**I listen to her leave. **Just like I listened to her showering, then searching my stuff. MI5, uh 6?, is clearly a trifle lax in the stealth training department. I hear her go through the car keys, mumbling about pushing her Landy or walking. Well, her call. I'm sure Ranger took the only Land Rover we found in a hurry. I am gonna guess that she will take the big Jeep Commander, it is similar to her Defender in style and size. I don't mind, I've been driving Wranglers since I was twelve and I'm perfectly happy with the Wrangler X Dani got me. The door to my suite closes briskly and she is gone. I wonder if she'll feel bad about our encounter? Give me a minute, I'm good. Give me an hour, I'm great. Give me six months, I'm unbeatable—not that an woman except maybe Steph (shh! you didn't hear that) has held my interest that long. I'm kinda hoping this thing with Em at least falls into the one minute category.

They don't call me _One Shot_ for nothing and one night stands, friends with benefits, are part of a single guy's life, I guess. I decide to move on, let it go. Let her go. I have other things on my mind. Other women.

Now, despite The Castle's modern architecture I can hear the wind picking up. Tomorrow's—well,this morning's—recon flight is gonna be tough. I close my eyes and sleep.

.

... ... ...

_[Em]_

**I got as far as the main elevator bank and Winter jumped** out of the shadows of a potted palm. I could practically hear Anthony doing a riff on the palm trees—_WTF do they have to do with a castle? where's the old armour? and so on..._

Anyway Winter slithered out and I gave a little scream. He grabbed my arm, pulled me into the elevator and shook me a little. "Did you learn anything?"

"Uh..."

"You guys have to be more aware of your surroundings," says Ranger who was leaning against the rear wall of the elevator. Winter whipped around, his knife flashing out into his hand. Manoso looked at the knife and almost laughed. "If I wanted you dead, Winter, you'd be dead, that toy won't do shit. Remember, uh—Phoenix, man?"

"What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Impasse.

Doors opened in the lobby. Deserted, at almost 4 AM. Ranger said to Winter, "Be here 0730, we need all the eyes in the chopper we can get."

"Who else is working the job?" asked Winter.

"Anthony will fly, I'll copilot. The exec heli hold six passengers. So far we have Em, Sara and Reynolds...plus you? Be there."

He gave me and Winter his faint, almost invisible nod and left. I couldn't help but ask, "Are you taking orders from him now, Winter?"

Shrug. "They are the best, and they specialize in the ridiculous. Their equipment is second to none and their budget unlimited. So yeah. I'm in. Let's see how the recon goes."

"Fine. Goodnight."

"Yo, Powers!" yelled Winter, running after me.

I stopped and stared at him. He gave me a sheepish grin."Got a place for me to crash for a few hours?"

I thought of Anthony sleeping on his billion count sheets on his glorious California king bed, looking exotic...and wonderful. And then here is Winter, scruffy as shit, as always. I stifled a sigh and said, "Sure." Then looked around cautiously. "You can come out now, Danny."

The shadows at the far side of the reception desk wavered slightly and 6'4" of tattooed and pierced Welshman slid into view.

Danny Turner grinned at me. "How'd you know I was 'ere, doll?"

I shrugged. "Because Winter doesn't even take a shit without you there to wipe his arse."

Beside me, Winter growled. I ignored him; I'd had enough of his crap for tonight.

Danny just laughed, loped across the lobby and pulled me into a hug. "How you doing, kiddo?"

"More to the point, did you do it?" Winter cut in. "They're not your clothes, are they?"He grabbed my elbow and pulled me around. "Look, Daniel, check out her ass."

"Erm...

"JOSF ATTF Delta," recited Winter, his tone mocking."Lah-di-fucking-dah."

I pulled free and scowled."What does it mean?" I asked.

"Whose pants, doll?"

"You don't need to know!"

"Not Manoso's, I'd be guessing. I can't see him wearing old unform combats. So, Mr. Stewart's? The letters stand for Joint Operations Special Forces, Anti-Terrorism Task Force. I assume even you know what Delta means? And NATO?"

"I don't give a shit, Winter. I'm knackered and I'm going home," I gritted out as I stomped across the lobby in the stupid pirate boots.

The deadly duo followed hot on my heels and we stepped out into the cold night air, rounded the side of the building and headed for the parking lot. Danny touched me gently on the shoulder. "Thanks for letting us crash at your place."

"Whatever," I muttered as I looked around for my ride.

"I've got my bike with me, so if you want to give me your keys then I'll let myself in," Danny offered. "If you've not moved, that is."

I cut my gaze to Winter. "You think I can afford to move out of that shit-hole on the salary I get off of the government?"

Winter remained silent.

I looked back to Danny and my icy stare softened, it wasn't his fault that his boss was a tosser. "Take the spare set from under the garden gnome next to the front door. Just watch out for the laser beams that shoot out from its eyes when you move it."

Danny raised a pierced eyebrow at me. "Nice to see that you still have a sense of humor, love."

"Only just," I replied as I watched him walk off towards the back of the car park.

"We'll take your car," Winter announced as we watched Danny tear out of the lot on his Ducati.

"I should make you sleep out here in the cold," I groused as I hit the key fob and looked around for the Jeep.

"Another one of your broken promises, Powers?" Winter chastised. "And why did you not tell me that you ran into Manoso and Stewart last year in America?"

I opened and closed my mouth a couple of times. "How did you…"

"I know everything, lady; don't you forget that."

I shook my head and headed over towards my new Jeep. "Whatever."

"Don't push me, Powers," Winter said as he shoved ahead of me and made for the driver's door. "I'm totting up your misdemeanors and failures and you're not far from having my boot rammed up your arse."

I stopped dead and planted my hands on my hips. "You can just fuck right off, Winter! I'm doing my best, given my very limited resources. Besides, I'm only as good as the training that I was given, and as I recall, I got that from you."

Winter nodded curtly. "Touché. Come along; I'm tired and we have an early start in the morning. Nice ride by the way."

I looked at the ugly Jeep. "That's what you get when you fuck rich guys, boss. Shit, I'm nothing but an under-paid whore and you're my pimp, right?"

He took the keys from my hand. "You are not a whore, and you are serving your country by collecting valuable intel."

I stomped around to the passenger side and got in. "Fine. Whatever you say."

... ... ...

**Danny was installed on the threadbare couch** sipping what I suspected was my last beer by the time we got back to my cottage. He looked up as we trouped in. "Your TV's buggered, love."

"No signal," I informed him. "One of the perks of living in the middle of freaking nowhere. I just watch DVDs on it"

He pouted. "I wanted to catch to footy scores—you got a radio?"

I shook my head. "No radio signal either."

"For fuck's sake! What is this place?" he bitched.

"Stromecarron—the edge of the world and possibly the twilight zone," I said in all honesty.

Danny slumped back on the couch and took a long pull of his beer. "Well, it sucks, I'll say that much. Maybe we can get you somewhere a bit less remote for your next assignment."

"I can live in hope," I told him.

"You can dream, love." Winter commented. "I'm going to bed, which room is mine?"

"Take my room, you can share with Danny and I'll kip on the couch," I offered. "I don't have a spare bed."

Danny grinned at me. "Or Winter can take the couch and I'll share with you."

Yeah, I'd been there and done that once before, and I was pretty sure that was why Winter didn't think I should have any qualms about shagging Anthony. Emily Powers, cheap screw—that was me. And while Danny was hot, I was not in the mood to get screwed over both figuratively and literally again by him. "You can share with Winter," I reiterated.

"Your loss," Danny said with a grin as his hand settled on my hip. "And I was looking forward to—"

I cut him off. "In case the pair of you didn't get the memo, I actually have a boyfriend."

"One that's happy to whore you out to the Americans for a donation to his precious archaeology," Danny shot back. "Yeah, David's a real nice guy."

I took a step back from him. "Is there actually anything that the pair of you don't know about my life?"

They looked at each other and Danny shot me a feral grin. "Nope. And at least I don't care if you've not shaved your legs for a couple of weeks and actually like your tattoos, unlike David."

I felt my face flame and looked wildly around the room. "I shaved my fucking legs!" No way would I seduce Anthony Stewart with stubbly legs, geez. "Please tell me that this place is not bugged."

Winter's hand dropped down heavily on my shoulder. "It's for your own safety."

"You fucking bastards!" I shrieked. "That's it—you can both sleep out on the lawn for all I care. Do the goddamn gnome for all I care. I'm going to bed. Alone, I might add." I stomped off up the stairs. _Pair of fuckers!_ I fumed. I actually prefered it yesterday, with Ranger and Anthony in my tiny house.

Damn it, I needed a new job, a new house and a new life. Maybe if I asked Ranger nicely he could find me something. Then again did I really want to be indebted to Ranger Manoso? How desperate was I right now? I was fast running out of options. Guess I should just head off to bed and close my eyes so I didn't see the chaos that is my life coming towards me at high speed.

Or I could always make a tactical retreat. That was kind of like running away from everything, only slightly more manly, or would that be womanly? Whatever… My life was a mess right now. I could only hope that once the terrorists were rounded up, Manoso, Stewart and the pair of bastards down stairs would all bugger off and leave me in peace.

I wedged a chair under the door handle and then stripped off the clothes that I had stolen from Anthony. Well, I kept his underwear on and topped it off with a well-worn tank top.

The shitty thing was that I actually really liked Anthony, and I knew that I was bloody lucky to spend tonight with him. He'd been sweet and funny and almost kind, not to mention an awesome shag. He was rich and gorgeous, and smart. He'd not been the challenge that I expected him to be (and so far he hasn't killed anyone) and I wouldn't be have been surprised if he had somehow known what Winter had instructed me to do. Shit, the one decent guy I meet in a long while and I bet he thinks I only fucked him for my job. I should talk to him tomorrow, apologize, give him his clothes back, maybe pass him my phone number and see if…?

_Yeah, right, Powers, you sad cow. Get a grip. Do you honestly think Anthony fucked you because he actually liked you? Chances are, he was just keeping tabs on you or offering up a pity fuck so Winter didn't bust your arse._

Fuck, I so need a new damn job.

... ...

**A few hours later we waited in the misty** November morning half-light, shivering and sipping mochachino lattes from tall green Starbucks go-cups, miraculously produced from somewhere by obnoxiously efficient Miss Perfect Dani.

We introduced ourselves—me, Winter, Sara Smith and John Reynolds, the UK cops. The men teased Dani a little, telling her she was beyond wonderful.

"Doll, you're magic, you are," gushed Winter, making everyone laugh. Oh okay I gagged.

The black Range Rover screeched into the parking lot by the helipad and Ranger and Anthony got out. Both were stone-faced, both dressed in commando black. Both looked like incoming death. Ranger got into the chopper without a word; Anthony stopped to take a coffee but glared at us all, standing around laughing. He said, "Yeah, it's, like, all fun and games till one of you gets my foot up your ass. Focus here, people, it's not a fucking cocktail party." He turned to Dani who got busy handing out high res scopes, binoculars and rifles. Anthony added, "You know what we're looking for, let's do this." He motioned us inside the plush helicopter, did his pilot's checklist with admirable swiftness and we lifted off into the rising sun.

Dani stood alone, below...and waved.

**tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>Please review? Thx!<strong>


	19. Chapter 19 One nineteen

**One ~ Chapter nineteen**

by sunny

**.**

**.**

_[Ranger] _

**We're almost late to the morning meet at the heli pad**. Because Anthony is in a foul mood and glued to the weather updates online, big storm approaching.

"Move your ass, bro."

"We're running out of time, Ranger. This storm is huge."

I won't accept _can't._ Failure is not an option here, these Islamist pawns have at least one missile...and maybe Emily's Land Rover.

I asked, "Options?"

Anthony pulled a lightweight black windbreaker over his weapons and shrugged, "Only one, boss. Close your eyes so you don't see it coming."

Great. A pilot who's gonna fly with his eyes closed? Anthony added, "Let's roll." I grabbed the Range Rover car keys and followed him out.

... ... ...

**My brother was uncharacteristically silent** on the three minute drive over the bridge and causeway to the heli pad. When I am feeling unsettled I get silent; usually Anthony talks a mile a minute to cover his nerves and distract observers. I don't try to read his thoughts, we don't intrude that way. And I am guessing all I'd get was a jumble anyway.

In the parking lot we see the estimable Dani serving coffee and smiling at MI5 boss Winter and his back-up man, Danny Turner.

Anthony leans forward and says, "What the fuck?"

"We knew Winter was here."

"Yeah. That asshole. Man, he treats Bailey like shit, I can't believe he has his talons hooked into Emily too."

''So when Winter showed last night, I knew Turner would be right behind, the guy is his shadow."

"Shit. But why are they _here_?"

"Any eyes can help. The terrain is very wooded, lots of steep hills, ravines..."

"They aren't gonna launch a missile from some hidden crevasse, Ranger. These guys aren't that smart." He opens the car door and stalks off to the heli almost before I had stopped the car.

I give the breakfast crowd a nod and follow Anthony. He is doing the preflight walk-around, working the checklist on his clipboard.

_What's wrong._

_Em. She snuck out last night, like, like, a thief...or a hooker._

_She didn't get any intel, right? Probably was pissed. That doesn't mean you have to run away from a little girl._

_I didn't run away, she did._

_I meant just now. Don't be a wuss._

_I was not running away. I was, uh, retreating._

_Uh huh._

"Retreating is like running away only manlier," Anthony says out loud. He checks the fuel cap. _Bang._ Closed the cover.

I stay silent. He frowns at me and adds, "She got exactly what she was _wanting_, man."

"Shhh, they can hear you."

"Not over this wind..." The wind was already picking up, noticeably colder, from the northwst.

"And?" I ask.

Anthony stops and turns on me, gets in my face. He pokes me a little with his pen and says, "I promised her _nothing_. She was using me. I just went along for the ride."

"Did you enjoy the ride?" I enquire, then realize I am prying. "Nevermind. Move on."

Anthony steps away before I have to smack him. He turns away and over his shoulder he yells, "Get them all on the heli, Ranger. I'm airborne in two minutes."

... ...

**I took a quick survey,** made sure everyone was safely strapped in—_geez, what an ill-assorted group my little army is, _I thought. But they all seemed awake and professional, all I really needed from them right now. The luxurious corporate helicopter had passenger seating for six, three on each side of a narrow aisle. Perfect for our purposes, everyone had their own window and a clear view below.

The instant I set my ass in the copilot's seat and click my safety harness securely, Anthony jammed the throttle hard and we lifted off in a stomach-lurching spiral.

I put on my headphones and say, "Shit! I hope you packed barf bags for them." I jerked my chin towards the passenger seats behind us.

Anthony's face was still as stony as it could get. He was avoiding me by watching the cockpit computer and dials intently.

After a moment he said, "I figure we'll start at The Castle and work out from there in circles." Silently he added, _If they puke, they clean it up. I have no time for pussies this morning, we're only a couple hours ahead of the storm. Wind's already a bitch._

"Fine," I responded to everything and the fancy chopper wheeled into the rising sun, curling itself low over the tiny island that held the castle and hotel. The old stonework glowed rose-gold and I again thought what a beautiful, even romantic place this was. My eyes were intent on the terrain below but my thoughts wandered again to Stephanie, left home alone in Trenton. No calls from Tank so I figured all was well. Steph seems happy living with me at Haywood...and she wears the rings I gave her when she can. (Yeah, I got carried away, they are a little extravagant for Stark Street.) But so far I haven't managed to get her to commit to a wedding date. She'll say she loves me, and "someday" but then she waffles, says _she can't even keep a cheese plant alive, how can she be sure she's ready to be someone's wife._ And so on. Like I'm Morelli wanting her home and pregnant, cooking and cleaning. I'm going for patient, at least for now.

_But what the fuck is cheese plant, anyway? _I think, apparently a bit too clearly.

_Houseplant. Monstera deliciosa...Prob'ly we'd call it a palm tree. Only it's, like, a vine thing not a tree._

_Oh for fuck's sake._

_You asked._

_Just fly the damn heli, okay?_

I block my thoughts a little...

Thing is, marriage will protect Steph. As my girlfriend, she's vulnerable to my enemies who might not dare touch Ranger Manoso's wife. And if something happens to me—either as Ranger or as myself—she will be protected legally, to inherit my estate and be given the protection and security she may need to survive. Now I wondered if she'd like to get married here at The Castle, a fairytale venue, a destination wedding that would be unimaginable in her Burg circle of friends and family. And maybe Morelli wouldn't come? Of course this all presupposes that The Castle will survive the coming assault, doesn't it.

The heli widened its path, now ascending to perhaps a thousand feet and flying over the water, then the mountains that rise behind the coast road.

... ... ...

_[Emily]_

**I gripped my binoculars **and stared at the man in the pilot's seat. My white-knuckled grip on the binos drew the attention of John Reynolds, the Scotland Yard / MI-5 agent who had taken the seat across the aisle from me. The heli tipped sharply sideways upon ascent and he leaned over to look out my window at the Castle whirling past not far below us. Now he reached over and patted my hand. The expensive helicopter had sound suppressant insulation and we could speak normally. Reynolds said, "Just sit back and try to relax, Ms Powers. Let your eyes just sweep over the terrain, note any anomalies and so on."

He thought I was a nervous flyer, for fuck's sake. I said, "Yeah and we'll be able to see my Landy. I hope."

Reynolds grinned at me. For an older guy—he was in his fifties, I guessed—he had a certain appeal. A nice smile. Kind eyes. My eyes drifted back to Anthony. He too had a certain appeal, I thought, as I flashed back to his naked body, all smooth brown skin and rippling muscles and beautiful tattoos and...

Reynolds was still talking. "...your Landy. Man, that car is a blast from the past. I drove Land Rover Defenders when I was in SAS in ...uh. I swear they haven't changed them a bit."

Winter who was sitting behind me leaned forward, "You were SAS, man?"

Reynolds nodded."Before your time, mate."

Winters mentioned his regiment, Reynolds remained evasive. _Hmmm._ Interesting.

Ranger's voice came over the loudspeaker."This isn't a sightseeing flight, people. You need to shut up and direct your attention below."

Both men jerked their eyes back to their own windows and left me in peace. I too carefully watched the autumn landscape below. I knew my input was crucial, I knew this area so much better than the others here this morning. The heli tipped again and I wondered if Anthony was venting his displeasure with our night's finale on the aircraft. Was he upset I shagged him? Searched his stuff? Unhappy that I left him alone, asleep? That I didn't snuggle up and tell him he was awesome? No. I'm pretty sure that was the last thing he was thinking. He had been affectionate, even passionate, but detached. The boy's heart was elsewhere, and basically he didn't give a shit about Emily Powers.

We widened our flight path, flew low out over Skye.

... ... ...

_Sara_

**I kept my mouth shut and my eyes firmly glued** to the tree-covered land below us. The two newcomers, introduced by Ranger as Smith and Jones, were quite the pair. I was fairly certain that the Outcast clone bloke was Christian Winter, I had seen him at some large scale intell briefings at headquarters in London. Reynolds had not reacted to Winter's inquisition and I suppressed a smile as John coldly refused to discuss his SAS background. John's SAS years aren't something he talks about, but I've heard the rumors. If you're American, think Black Hawk Down—only worse. John was awarded medals that he does not acknowledge to this day.

The other young new man was called Danny. He was tall and skinny and had very long dark red hair that could use a good wash, or a barber. He was in his late twenties, had bad teeth and a Welsh accent. He was the one called Jones by Ranger and he seemed quite taken by me, as if I am not ten years his senior and the proud mother of four kids, left home alone with their dad while Mum saves the world.

Danny's idea of flirtation included asking me to help him latch his seat belt and some talk about "having a pint later- just you and me, luv.''

I smiled coolly and then ignored him. I had worked with Ranger and Stewart before and I knew that despite their money and film star faces, they were all business, all the time.

Even as I had that thought, Ranger's voice cracked out a command to look sharp. Danny "Jones" refocused on his own window.

...

The recon continued in tense silence while Anthony worried about the coming snow.

... ... ...

_[the bad guys]_

**That morning, well before dawn, before the agents** began their recon flight, the four British jihadists made the long trek across the bridge to the Isle of Skye. The previous day the stolen white Land Rover had been altered, a superstructure for the missile launching bolted and welded to the roof between the cargo rails. It made the vehicle less stable on the mountain roads, it was a long hard drive through the blackest night the men had ever witnessed. The seemingly endless drive across Skye to the cove where they'd retrieve the missile was completed in solitude, no locals out on the road at that hour.

Dekko drove while the other three slept. He had no idea where he was or where he was going; he followed the small GPS he'd stuck on the dashboard. It had been programmed by their handler, Sayyed. And it led them efficiently through the night past a small village called Lower Milovaig. The final turn led to a gravel track and ended at sandy cove on the farthest edge of Scotland's west coast.

Dekko parked close to the water, under some stunted somethings...pine trees? The Land Rover didn't have a clock but the GPS readout said 2.23 AM. They were right on time.

**tbc**

... ... ...

Please review?


	20. Chapter 20 One twenty

_**One **_

_**.**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Previously:<strong>_ _Ranger's voice came over the loudspeaker. "This isn't a sightseeing flight, people. You need to shut up and direct your attention below."_

_The men jerked their eyes back to their own windows and left me in peace. I too carefully watched the autumn landscape below. I knew my input was crucial, I knew this area so much better than the others here this morning. We widened our flight path, flew low out over Skye. _

* * *

><p><strong>One ~ Twenty<strong>

.

_Ranger_

"**What the fu..."** mumbled Anthony.

The snow turned to blizzard thirty minutes ago, high wind and near zero visibility. And each wind gust jolted the small heli, electing gasps and then silent, stony alertness from our passengers.

Now Anthony leaned forward aiming the heli's nose down for a better view. Muttered curses from behind us, but Anthony ignored them, pointing to his left. He angled around, said, "At your two now."

I peered through the whirling snow to my right and caught sight of the white Land Rover chugging its way up the already snow covered back road that led into the craggy hills behind the main coast road.

"My Landy!'' suddenly shrieked Powers. ''Over there! Look!"

I keyed my mic and said, ''We see it.''

We circled above the white truck, slowly moving lower. The finely tuned jet engines of the corporate heli were probably muffled by the wind and snow, but, "Don't go too low," I said anyway. "Let's make sure it's them."

Anthony leveled off at 500 feet but kept close. He said, "These guys are idiots. I can see the missile sticking out the rear window. They even put a fucking red caution flag on it."

_Law-abiding terrorists. Go figure._

Emily was sputtering, ''I cannot believe those fuckwits stole my Landy to tote around the missile! That's so—so, so, _shitty!_ So bloody wrong."

Winter leaned across the aisle, more than a little smugness in his voice. "See, Powers, I told that you truck was shite. If you drove a proper girl's car this whole affair would never have happened. We'd all be home in London, having a nice bit of brunch or something.''

"I could do with a hot plate o' waffles," laughed Danny. He turned to Sara, wiggled a dark red eyebrow."You like nice, hot, steamy waffles, doll?"

Sara curled her lip.

Powers said, "Only you could make waffles sound obscene, Turner. That's disgusting."

Winter chimed in, "What's disgusting is a little girl like you driving a vehicle that appeals to terrorists." He shook his head, looked self-satisfied.

Silence then, "Can I shoot him, Ranger?'

''Not right now, babe. Maybe later?'' Then, "Any idea where they're headed, Emily?" I added.

"Uh..." She thought for a few seconds, then said, "There's a scenic overlook. Has a view of The Castle..."

"Oh yeah, we stopped there when we drove in the other day."

Anthony said, "They can launch it right from the little parking lot there. They'd have line-of-sight, no need to figure out how to program the computer's targeting system."

"We could land there and intercept them," I said.

Anthony said, "It'll take them at least 20 minutes to get there in this blizzard. We can't wait that long, Ranger."

"We'll go back and get the Jeeps. They're all-terrain and not hauling hundreds of pounds of armament."

Anthony glanced at me. _Are you sure that's what you want to do?_

Our thoughts merged. More a case of intimately knowing each other's battle sense, intuiting our plan of attack, than conversational esp.

Another blast of wind hit us and we careened sideways. I nodded. "Yeah. The Castle. Now."

... ... ...

_the bad guys_

_**Dekko drove while the other three slept.** He had no idea where he was or where he was going; he followed the small GPS he'd stuck on the dashboard. It had been programmed by their handler, __Sayyed__. And it led them efficiently through the night past a small village called Lower Milovaig. The final turn led to a gravel track and ended at sandy cove on the farthest edge of Scotland's west coast._

_Dekko parked close to the water, under some stunted trees. The Land Rover didn't have a clock but the GPS readout said 2.29 AM. They were right on time._

**Dekko's mates slept right through the stopping** and parking bit of the plan. Dekko sat there, getting more pissed off by the minute. He glanced at Jonno next to him. Jonno fancied himself their leader, but just look at him...a good Muslim would not be sprawled in a drunken stupor like that. In the back his old pal Len and the Irishman Kevin O'Malley were in the same state of drunken sleep.

Dekko vaguely wanted to be a devout follower of Islam. He drank less now, fucked less now, even gave up his favorite bacon sandwiches. All for The One Path of Allah. But since they arrived here in Scotland, Dekko saw how the others instantly lapsed. And he himself never prayed anymore. They had even returned to using their English names. Dekko considered this a while longer, decided it didn't much matter. What mattered was sending a message to the rich have-it-all arseholes.

And seeing that Castle explode would be brilliant.

Dekko reached over and poked Jonno. "We're here, mate. Wake up." He turned towards the backseat and yelled "Get yer arses in gear!"

It took a few minutes for everyone to wake up, take a piss in the pine scrub, and suit up in black jackets and watch caps and gloves. Earlier in their mission they stole an inflatable Zodiac and outboard motor from a marina on the English coast, knowing they'd be long gone before the owner missed it. Now they hauled it out and carried it to the edge of the water. Set off its self-inflation control, set up the outboard as they'd been taught.

At precisely 4 AM in the darkest predawn hour, an anonymous fishing trawler chugged quietly into Milovaig's tiny harbor. It made a slow circle a few hundred yards offshore, turned away and idled a moment.

Splash! A heavy bundle wrapped in yellow hi-vis plastic was dropped from the stern. It had inflated buoyancy balloons that kept it afloat. The fishing boat then throttled up and disappeared into the night. It took the four men another couple hours to retrieve the missile, drag it ashore and load it into the Land Rover. Despite their brief stint of training they were neither efficient nor adept. The water was choppy, the wind began to howl, and the device was far heavier than it looked—it was just a metal tube perhaps 18 inches in diameter, six feet long, plus a superstructure and launch ignition device like a thick old laptop computer.

Jonno told the other three, "Let's get it up on the roof, boys!"

"No," said Dekko. "It will take us maybe two hours to drive back to our launch site! It will be daylight soon. Even these Scots farmers will notice if we drive around with a missile on the roof. And the target launch time is five PM."

Jonno glared."What the fuck do you suggest, then?"

"Put it in the cargo hold."

"Won't fit, arsehole," said Kev.

"We'll roll the window down, put the last row of seats down."

Twenty minutes later, all of them sweaty and breathless, they stood and looked at their weapon.

Jonno said, "What now, Dek? It hangs out. Coppers will stop us, give us a ticket. Maybe look too close at what we got 'ere."

Len piped up, "Me dad was a carpenter, of sorts. When he hauled boards that stuck out like that he'd tie on a red flag. Like, a caution thing."

Everyone turned to stare at the usually silent man. He shrugged."Well he did. Never got stopped."

"Thought yer old man was a thief, mate."

"Yeah, well, he specialized in building sites. Did quite the business with stolen lumber afore the cops got him finally."

"Uh huh."

"Died in prison, ya know?" Len kicked a stone and added, "I miss me dad."

Dekko wanted to scream but he quietly said, "What do we have that is red?"

"My t-shirt?" offered Kevin. He took off his black parka and stripped off his smelly red undershirt.

"Eeeew. You tie it on," groused Jonno. "I ain't touching your BO."

"Fine."

"Hurry it up, it's fucking snowing already!"

Two hours later, the four One Path of Islam operatives, such as they were, made their way through the blizzard, up the narrow mountain road behind the coastal villages and farms that edged Loch Arne. Oblivious to helicopter following them.

... ... ...

_Anthony_

**I landed right in the hotel parking lot,** there was a big grassy area (now snow-covered of course) surrounded by The Castle's circular drive. The helipad, off to the western cliff edge was already obscured by drifts.

The storm had produced an artificial twilight, an early darkness effect, and The Castle was lit up like Disney World's castle, all ready for this evening's impending keynote address by US Treasury Secretary Balter and the gala dinner. It made a huge glowing target against the purple black sky. I landed and powered down the heli's rotors without turning them off entirely. Ranger was issuing orders while I searched the control panel for the deicing mechanism.

Ranger sent everyone out, car keys and weapons in hand, then he climbed back into the cockpit and settled in to the pilot's seat that I had vacated.

He handed me my M[xxx] sniper rifle, said, "Let's do this, bro."

He revved the engine, the rotors whined against the ice encrustation. He looked intently at the gauges, hands seemingly adept on the throttle and joystick.

I asked, "You remember how to fly this baby?"

"Yes. I had one a few years ago, remember? Before we traded up to..." His voice trailed off as we rose into the wind and circled the Castle, headed back to the overlook. Ranger and I would fly in alone. Ranger would never risk the lives of what he by now perceived as his crew, by flying with them into this mammoth gale wind and whiteout snow.

Below us I could see the Jeeps and the Range Rover moving out, providing backup. Whatever the troops thought of our desertion they were all professional enough to continue as ordered.

"The GPS is set for the overlook,'' I told Ranger. ''In case you can't see."

"Shit," he mumbled in response. Flying blind with a small luxury heli, in a situation where autopilot was hopeless and radar was useless, was tantamount to suicide. But of course the mission is everything, Ranger doesn't accept failure on the job.

That's why they pay him the big bucks, I guess. No clue why I am here. No clue _at all._

We approached the overlook in minutes, our trip expedited by the fact that the bad guys had set up big arc lamps, spotlights, to help them see to put the missile on its launcher. Ranger flew a slowish circle while we reconned again, making sure of our target's position. We could see the black parka'd men frantically bolting the missile's launch tube onto the Landy's new superstructure. The dark missile was clearly outlined against the vehicle's white roof.

I checked my weapon again. Locked and loaded. "Ready when you are."

Ranger dropped the heli down, going for shortened distance since the wind was so bad.

I grabbed the door latch beside me, said, "What the fuck?"- _today's mantra, lol._

''What," asked Ranger, his voice eerily calm.

"There's a car coming, pulling right into the lot."

We stared down through the blizzard. Ranger said, "I can hardly believe my eyes."

His cell phone rang. He said, "I can't get that, can you?"

I grabbed his phone out of his jacket pocket. Thumbed it on. Emily's voice said, "I just got a text from Nigel! Seems David saw the terrorists drive by in my Landy, he and some of his mates have been in the bar all day, drinking and trash talking. They ran out to the old sheepshit Jeep and took off." Pause. "That's all he, Nigel, knew. You won't kill David, will you? Please?"

_I might,_ I thought and I knew Ranger felt the same, but I said, "I'll work around them." I set my own rifle gently at my feet, grabbed Ranger's fully-automatic assault rifle, jammed in the clip of 8000 rounds. I was sitting on the right hand side of the cockpit, so I transferred the rifle to my right hand. I shoved open the door, just maybe 12 inches, leaned out an arm and shoulder. Frigid air enveloped us, visibility lessening rapidly.

The heli dropped low. Fifty feet. Thirty.

I opened fire.

One down.

Two...three.

Then, "Jameson is in the way, I don't have a clear shot, man. Come around."

In the seconds it took us to reposition, the last of the terrorists —so close now I could see it was the blond man called Dekko —ducked down and ran around by the far side of the missile launcher, and...

And, and...: an enormous boom as the missile fired. Even as I shot him, the man called Dekko had maintained the discipline to press that little red On button before he died in the onslaught of my weapon's fire.

The heli was jolted by the launch combustion, but Ranger truly is a fine pilot. He pulled us out and up, leaving the Scottish men, those fucking drunks, to fend for themselves.

He said, "Em and Winter will get there in a moment, they don't need us."

I said, "Okay," and half a mile away, The Castle exploded.

**tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reviewing!<strong>


	21. Chapter 21 One twenty one

**One**

**.**

**_One ~ Twenty One_**

by Adalind

_[Emily]_

**Despite the fading light**, the splatters of blood showed up brightly against the fallen snow. I watched with a sort of calm detachedness as my definitely ex-boyfriend emptied the contents of his stomach all over a small snow drift just to my left. One of David's drunken mates was still staring at the terrorist with half of his head missing, like the whole thing wasn't real, and the remaining idiot had passed out cold on the frigid ground.

I slid the Glock away at the small of my back and walked over to what was left of my beloved Land Rover. She'd been hacked to pieces so those bastards could launch the missile. She was certainly going to that great scrap yard in the sky once the government forensic mob finished with her, that was for sure.

And after all our hard work, the missile had launched anyway, and I wondered if it had hit its target. It was difficult to tell in this blizzard, but even now the sound of sirens drifted up from the main road. What a fucking mess. And while standing there in a lay by in a blizzard, I just knew that somehow Winter would blame me for half of this shit. Well he wasn't going to take the blame himself, now was he? Fucker.

My life was as messed up as my car and I had no idea what to do to fix it. I needed to get out of here, to regroup and figure shit out, but problem was that I didn't have an effing car to call my own right now.

Danny walked up beside me and slung an arm around my shoulders. I stiffened at his touch. "Feck off, Turner."

"Spook squad will be here soon to clean up this cluster fuck. I wouldn't count on seeing David for a while if I were you."

I nodded. "Stupid tosser— what was he thinking?"

Danny shrugged. "Fucked if I know, love."

"I'm sorry," I said.

He frowned and shoved his windblown hair away from his face. "What for?"

"For this, for everything, for not getting Winter intel on Ranger and Anthony, for being a lousy fuck… Hell, Danny, I'm sorry for everything."

"Stop it," he hissed as he grabbed me roughly by the wrist and dragged me off behind the Jeep we'd arrived in. "This is not your fault. And don't worry about the intel—that was only for Winter's own personal interest, never the government's. And I wouldn't say that you were a lousy fuck at all."

"Thanks very much," I muttered sarcastically.

Danny looked around furtively and spotted his boss deep in conversation with Sara and Reynolds. Satisfied that no one was watching us, Danny put his hand in his pocket and removed a clutch of items. He pressed the car keys, a large roll of notes and a passport into my hand. "Take them and go, doll."

I looked down cautiously at the items in my hand "I…"

"Go. Now!" he hissed.

"Okay."

He smiled at me and took a step away, then reached out and pulled me to him and I squirmed as he planted a kiss on my mouth. "Sorry," he said with a roguish grin. "Couldn't resist one last kiss. Now get the hell out of here—I'll distract everyone for a few minutes."

"Thanks, Danny."

"Take care, kiddo. Give my regards to Anthony."

"Excuse me?" I spluttered.

The cheeky bastard just grinned. "Please, where else would you be going? You've got it bad, Powers."

I shot him a rude hand gesture and climbed into the rented Jeep. He walked over to the Winter and the others and they all moved away towards the far side of the lay by to look at something. I turned the engine over, slowly pulled back out onto the treacherous road and headed off in the direction of Stromecarron so I could grab a few things from my house. I'd be long gone before they even tried looking for me in this weather. I had to hope that the passport Danny had given me was good, but then knowing him, it would be. I'd always suspected that Winter was never fully aware of what Danny was up to and I was thankful that someone was watching my arse.

tbc

final chapter & epilog soon...


	22. Chapter 22 One twenty two The End

**One **

* * *

><p><em><strong>previously: <strong>_And, and...an enormous boom as the missile fired. Even as Anthony shot him, the man called Dekko had maintained the discipline to press that little red On button before he died in the onslaught of my weapon's fire.

The heli was jolted by the launch combustion, and half a mile away, The Castle exploded.

* * *

><p><strong>One ~ Twenty two<strong>

by sunny and Adalind

.

_[Ranger]_

**Anthony and I stood in the snowy forecourt** of The Castle, our rifles uselessly in hand, silently judging. Ourselves, the op. Then we took action as any black operative would do, as we'd been trained so long ago.

We left.

We abandoned the helicopter in the snowy field and walked calmly to the rented Jeep Wrangler that had not been appropriated by Winter or John Reynolds. Anthony had the extra keys in his pocket. We drove to London, flew a chartered jet home. The end.

On the long transatlantic flight I sadly mused over the demise of my Highlands wedding fantasy. The bomb had missed the Castle, even missed the conference center and the hotel and spa. The One Path of Islam agents had not had time to aim the missile; Dekko's final desperate act, to press the detonating button, had resulted only on the destruction of the big white tent, sometimes used for staff meetings, mostly used for summer weddings—where the Brits had been running their security briefings. It was empty when the blast occurred. In The Castle, the windows throbbed, a few glasses clinked...but no one was injured. There was not a single casualty. Mostly everyone was entirely unaware—the bomb's blast, occurring across the loch, a causeway's distance away, was mostly muffled by the roar of the blizzard winds.

...

_[Emily]_

**My morose thoughts drifted to** Anthony as I drove—he certainly didn't stick around to see what happened. Hell, he and Ranger had taken off without us in the first place, and I knew without a doubt that the pair of them would be, at this precise moment, heading south towards the Scottish border as fast as fucking possible. They weren't going to hang around for the aftermath and clean up either. And I, like them, had to get out of this bloody country as fast as possible too.

When Winter and the government started looking for me, they would first check airports, but I'd bet my roll of cash on the fact that they would start with Glasgow and then fan out to places like Manchester and London. So I would totally fox them by driving north to Gill's Bay and take the small car-ferry crossing to Orkney, fly out of Kirkwall to Ireland or Scandinavia and then lay low for a while before moving on again to mainland Europe or America. I could be clever and sneaky when needs be and there was no way on this earth that I was going to let Winter catch up with me any time soon.

The drive to Stromecarron took twice as long as it would in decent weather as the roads were so bad, but at least that would slow down anyone thinking of following me. And another thing on my side was that I knew the roads here like the back of my hand—even in white-out conditions. I missed my Land Rover, but the Jeep didn't handle the adverse conditions that badly, and I stashed it around the back of my cottage so it wasn't visible from the road. With any luck the tyre tracks I'd made on the drive would vanish in a few minutes and I'd have a big enough window to collect my clothes, laptop and toiletries.

...

_[Ranger]_

**I personally would have left everything behind**, I travel light, I don't get attached. Anthony said very little, just that his PA would remain in Scotland to wind things up. Danielle efficiently returned all the cars and the heli to their various rental facilities. She packed up Anthony's clothes and golf clubs and computers, our stuff from the Stromecarron Hotel. She loaded everything into Anthony's plane which we'd abandoned in snowy Inverness. And she transported it all, along with Anthony's laughable entourage, back to New York or New Jersey, as the case might be.

Back in Jersey, I took a text message from my old friend John Reynolds who simply said: _all is well . you got lucky. _An accurate assessment, I thought. I didn't hear from anyone else—Winter, Powers, whoever—If they had something to add, well, too bad. They don't know how to reach me.

Anthony checked in a day after we got back. He sounded normal, stress-free. He said, "You okay?"

"Yes."

"Did Stephanie miss you? I hope she had a warm welcome for you..."

I was silent, not sure I wanted to share the details of our reunion. Stephanie did not mention the crisis in Scotland or seem to connect me in any way. Instead, that warm grey morning in Trenton, she looked up from her plate of waffles, the hot maple syrup pooling on her pouty lower lip. She chewed, swallowed, gave me her wonderful smile...

Then she showed me what a hot sexy welcome home could be.

_I could get used to being missed. I might go in the wind more often._

Now I just said to Anthony, "How about you, everything okay?"

"Yeah, except my shoulder muscles still are bothering me, I'm not used to right handed machine gun action."

"You need to work on that."

"God, I hope not." He went onto tell me about Danielle, his PA, clearing out, cleaning up after us, after the storm subsided. "One of the Jeeps turned up at the ferry dock in Orkney. Dani had to send one of my people to fetch it after the storm passed."

"Huh. So—Winter? Or maybe Powers?"

"I don't know," answered Anthony. "I wasn't interested enough to have Dani check out the details. I gave that asshole Danny Whatisname cash and papers for Em. I figured she'd take the car too. You want me to follow up? Danielle's still in the UK, uh, tidying, as she calls it."

"No. Not important," I said.

"I was gonna give Dani a freakin' bonus until I walked into my office here this morning and saw what she and my mom did to my sofa."

"Sofa?"

"Dude! Like, remember? I needed a new sofa, my old one got shot up?"

"How did...? Nevermind. What's wrong with the new sofa? Your mother has good taste."

"Yeah, it's like, either totally tack city or way cool, but I am pretty sure it's inappropriate for a banker dude."

I stifled a sigh. "And?"

"They had it custom made..."

_"And?"_

"It's nine feet long, upholstered in Quicksilver board short fabric."

"Not neon?"

"No—black and grey and white, their urban surfer line. It even has the little Quicksilver wave logo mixed in with the flowers."

I managed not to laugh. "Flowers?"

"Well yeah, like Hawaiian flowers. Hibiscus on drugs? You know what board shorts look like, right?"

"Yes..."

Then we both cracked up.

... ... ...

**It took a few more days** but the powers that be in Washington finally figured out I was back in country. So now I'd been called to DC to debrief. Laughable, right? I don't debrief. But the request came directly from the president, followed up by a call from my general, the good one General XXX. Secretary Balter was lying low, I understood. Just in case any more One guys came after his pompous ass.

So here I was. Not the Oval Office, but the Situation Room, a high tech comm room that I guess the president thought would—what? intimidate me?

We politely shook hands but the atmosphere was cool. The president twitched up the knees of his navy blue suit pants (Brooks Brothers, geez) and said, "Tell me about the mission in Scotland. What went wrong?"

"This room is bugged," I answered. "We need to talk outside."

"It's raining," said a presidential aide.

I shrugged, said to the president, "Get an umbrella, sir."

The three of us—me, the general, the president and his umbrella, walked out into the muggy drizzle of a DC autumn. It was almost 80 degrees with equal humidity. The president looked a trifle cranky. And snowy Scotland felt like a long ago dream to me.

I said, "The mission, sir, was a success. One Path Of Islam is no longer viable. The terrorist cell was permanently rendered harmless, their mission forced to fail. No lives were lost."

He said, "Their mission failed but the missile...with the bomb!—was launched! It was supposed to be aborted."

I stopped and stared at him. "I hope you don't want your money back, Mr. President."

He looked shifty."Uh..."

I looked over at the general.

?

The general shrugged. I turned my stare back on the president. He heaved a big sigh and said, "No, Colonel. We don't want the money back."

I did a brief nod."Good. Anything else, gentlemen?"

"No."

"No."

"Fine." I turned to walk away but the president called after me, "Colonel Manoso! Carlos!"

I stopped. "Yes?"

"Uh. Thank you."

I almost smiled. "_De nada_. Call me if you need me, the general knows my number. I'm always available, sir. If the price is right."

* * *

><p><strong><em>One ~ Epilog<em>**

_[Emily ]_

**I ****stood in my tiny bedroom **in the shepherds' cottage in Stromecarron and looked around one last time just to make sure that I'd not left anything behind that I wanted to keep. I had forgotten one thing, probably the most important to me at that moment. I swiftly pulled the cheap Monet print off the wall, and removed a business card stuck to the back of it. It read:

**Anthony Robert Stewart**

**M and S World International Bank**

**NEW YORK, London, Rome, Zurich, Geneva, Tokyo**

**Georgetown, Cayman Is**

I flipped it over and _engraved_ on the back was:

**www[dot]oneshot[dot] com 800 . 555 . oneshot**

The embossing had worn off from where I had run my fingers over it a million times, the edges were dented and curled, but this tiny scrap of card felt like the only thing I had in the world that had any worth right now. I knew that I had to make peace with Anthony Stewart. I didn't want the poor guy remembering me as 'that bitch who screwed him over' for the rest of his life. And as of an hour ago, I was also unemployed.

I guess there are worse things to do than to ask Ranger Manoso for a job.

**The End**

* * *

><p>Thanks and hugs to <strong><em>everyone <em>**who contributed to this story!

Thanks to everyone for reading and special thanks for reviewing!


End file.
